Angus entering the ranch house from the rear, was amazed to see Turkey with his wife and Jean. But when he learned of the runaway he took his brother's hand in a hard grip.
"Go easy!" Turkey objected, rescuing his crushed digits. "You've got no business letting her ride that cayuse. He's a new one on me."
"It wasn't Doughnuts," Faith exclaimed. "It was that new bay, but I won't do it again. But it was worth it to meet Turkey and bring him home. Now you boys have got to make up. Turkey, tell him what you told me."
Turkey told that and more. He told of the conversation he had overheard between Garland and Poole.
"Why, I blamed you for that ditch business," Angus said.
"I know you did—now; but I didn't know it that night when you came to my shack."
Turkey proceeded. He told of seeing Braden take the documents from French's safe, and of how he had obtained them.
Angus scanned the deeds which Faith handed him, and going to a desk in the corner found those which French had given Faith. He spread them on the table and the four bent above them. Faith caught her breath sharply.
"The description of the landisdifferent!" she cried.
"Yes, it throws your land further west—all of it. According to this your west line would be about where we thought it was—where French originally told you it ran."
"Then—?"
"Then if these are the original deeds, you own the coal prospect that Braden is developing."
"If they are the originals the others must be forgeries."
"Yes. It's plain enough. The originals were made by Braden and witnessed by French. Somehow they found this coal and then they tried to buy you out. When you wouldn't sell but demanded your deeds, they prepared new ones, moving your block east and leaving out the coal lands. That was easy, because Braden owned land on either side of yours. All they had to do was to sign the new deeds themselves. Where they slipped up was in not destroying the originals. I don't understand that, unless French thought their possession would give him a hold on Braden if he didn't play fair with the coal. Braden should have destroyed them when he stole them from French."
"But what are we going to do about it?"
"I had better see Judge Riley."
"What's the matter with you and me and maybe Dave going up there and standing up the bunch and running them off?" Turkey suggested. "I'd like to hold a gun on Garland. I'm going to get him. That was a dirty trick—"
"We'll get him. But Braden's the man I'm after. I'll give him a taste of the law he's so fond of."
"I'm thinking of Kathleen," Faith interposed. "If Braden was a forger, so was her father."
"But you can't let that deprive you of a hill full of coal."
"No, I didn't mean that. But if there is any way in which it can be kept quiet please take it."
"That will depend on Braden," Angus replied. "Anyway, I'll see Judge Riley the first thing to-morrow."
In the morning they entered Judge Riley's office before the judge had lighted his first pipe. He listened to Turkey's story, puffing hard, occasionally rumpling his gray mane.
"I knew it," he said. "I knew that some time Braden would put his foot outside the law. Your potential law-breaker merely waits for an opportunity which he thinks is safe. Braden thought he was safe enough, and he is a pretty cautious individual. It is one thing to be morally sure that he committed forgery and another to prove it. Now, let's see what evidence we have to go on."
He spread out both sets of documents on his desk and studied them intently.
"Both," he observed after an interval, "are in my opinion actually signed by Braden and French—one as grantor and the other as witness. I know their signatures very well. The notarial certificate of execution is not material, because it is separate, and could easily have been detached from the originals and attached to the others."
"Your theory is that the deeds delivered by French to your wife were prepared recently. Let us see if we can find anything in the deeds themselves to corroborate that. They are on identical legal forms, and seem to have been written on the same machine, for the same letters show poor alignment, and the face of one, the small 'c' appears to have been injured. Let me see: I have some old letters of Braden's."
Rising he took down an old letter file and searched through it, finally removing a letter.
"This, like these deeds, is dated some seven years ago, and was written in Braden's office. It exhibits the same peculiarities of type."
"Well, wouldn't that show that both deeds were drawn seven years ago?" Angus deduced in disappointment, for so far the judge's words were not encouraging.
"Not as bad as that. It would show merely that both were prepared on a machine owned by Braden seven years ago. Here are other letters from him, written on another and presumably more modern machine. He may have the old one yet. It merely points to careful preparation—painstaking forgery. But Turkey, here, cannot testify positively that Braden was carrying a machine in the case that night, nor did he see him write anything on a machine. He cannot identify the machine that he did see."
"No," Turkey admitted.
"So that even if we found the old machine in Braden's possession, it would prove nothing," the judge went on. "Nor can you positively identify the documents you saw Braden abstract from French's safe?"
"No."
The judge rumpled his mane and reflected.
"The writing is slightly fainter in the deeds which we are trying to prove are the more recent. That might go to show either that they were written long ago, or recently with a dry or worn ribbon such as might well be in an old, discarded machine. But there is not enough difference to get us anywhere on that line. We can't depend on the testimony of Braden's stenographer, for it is too long ago. She would probably identify both as having been written on or about the dates which they bear, merely by the peculiarities of type of the machine she used then. Her evidence would probably be against us."
"But take the whole thing," Angus urged. "Take French's attempt to buy my wife out."
"Unfortunately, you have no evidence to connect Braden with that. He would deny all connection under oath, as he did to you. When you set out to prove a case out of the mouth of a hostile witness, you are embarking on a very doubtful enterprise. The fact is, Braden himself is the only witness, and there is nothing so far to contradict the evidence he will undoubtedly give if called."
"But how can he account for the existence of two sets of deeds?"
"I don't know," the judge replied, "but he will account for them. Don't underestimate him. He's a cunning fox. Suppose I put myself in his place. Assume that the documents delivered to your wife by French are forgeries. The originals I should have destroyed, but did not. They are stolen from my safe. I do not know who has them. I may suspect Garland, because of the disappearance of the other paper, but I am not sure. In any event I must provide against the possibility that they may be used against me. Now what story will hold water? What would be plausible?"
He drummed his spatulate fingers on his desk, his eyes half closed.
"My effort," he resumed after a moment's silence, "has been to duplicate the originals in every detail, to make it appear that the second were prepared some seven years ago. Then my explanation must be one which will naturally account for the preparation of two sets of deeds on or about the same date. And that can only be because there was some mistake in the first which rendered the preparation of the second necessary. Now, what is the most natural mistake, the most everyday, common mistake?"
He paused again.
"Misdescription!" he announced, "a misdescription of the property, a clerical error in that. And it's so profoundly simple! The instrument signed and witnessed carelessly, without comparison; then the discovery that the land was wrongly described, followed by the preparation of a second conveyance, and neglect to destroy the first, which of course is void both by error and lack of delivery. There you are! That's Braden's defense. And the devil of it is, that without evidence to contradict it it's perfectly good."
"Do you mean he gets away with it?" Turkey exclaimed.
"On the face of it he does," the judge replied, "but sometimes faces alter. No man can construct evidence without a weak spot somewhere. Leave these papers with me. I'll think the whole thing over again."
When his clients had gone he refilled his pipe and put his feet on his desk. He sat for an hour, motionless, his cold pipe between his teeth. Then once more he scrutinized the deeds carefully, looking at the faulty type. At last he held them to the light and peered at them. Then he brought his gnarled old fist down.
"By George!" he muttered, "it's a slim chance, and unprofessional as the devil, but it's about the only one I see. As matters stand, it would be folly to launch an action. 'Conscience makes cowards.' That's truer than most proverbs, and Braden's a rank coward at heart. I'll give him a few days to get really nervous, and then I'll try it. It may work—yes, itmaywork."
As Mr. Braden was quite sure that Garland had abstracted the deeds he expected to receive a proposition from him. When this did not come he was puzzled. What was Garland waiting for? Was it possible that he was dickering with Mackay?
The result of this uncomfortable suspicion was that he began to sound Garland, speaking carelessly of Faith's claim to the property, ridiculing it. Garland, being by no means a fool, began to wonder why Braden recurred to the subject, and began to lead him on.
"What made her think she owned the thing?" he asked. "If her deeds are all right they ought to show her what's hers."
This confirmed Braden's suspicions.
"You heard Mackay say French gave them to her before he died."
"Yes, I heard that," said Garland. But if Braden kept insisting on those deeds there must be something crooked about them. If they had been made years ago, why hadn't they been handed over? And why was Braden talking to him? The only answer was that he must be supposed to know something which he did not. However, being a fair poker player he remembered that the bluff of a pat hand has been known to win. He shot at a big venture: "As long as she doesn't know any more than those deeds tell her, I guess she won't make you any trouble," he said.
There was no doubt at all in Mr. Braden's mind now about Garland.
"Look here," he said, "are you going to make trouble for me—I mean are you going to try to?"
Garland was amazed at the result of his random shot, but had no objection to picking up the birds thus fallen at his feet.
"Not if you do the fair thing," he replied.
"What do you call fair?" Mr. Braden demanded.
Garland was in deep water. Braden wanted him to put a price on silence. Well, he had no idea of the price Braden would be prepared to pay.
"Fifty-fifty," he replied at a venture.
"Fifty-fifty!" Mr. Braden echoed. "Why, you hold-up, you sneaking safe-robber, I'll see you damned first. Those deeds you stole aren't worth the paper they're written on."
Here was real news for Garland. Deeds had been stolen from Braden's safe. If they were the real deeds of the property and French and Braden had delivered bogus ones to that girl, then Braden was in a devil of a mess. And Braden thoughthehad them.
"I'll take a chance on that," he replied.
But Mr. Braden, since the loss of the deeds, had been busy mentally constructing a bomb-proof defense, and this had taken very nearly the form anticipated by Judge Riley.
"Then you won't get a nickel out of it," he told Garland. "They might make a certain amount of trouble, but that's all. I'm not going to be held up. You think because you stole that old note and statement of yours when you took the deeds that I've no strings on you? Well, you try anything and see."
Garland in his surprise nearly exposed his hand. Here was a rotten complication, which gave him a very live interest in the affair. While evidence of his old transgression was in Braden's hands he had been sure it would not be used. But now somebody else had it. Who would have an interest in taking it, as well as deeds affecting the coal lands? Obviously Mackay, who would like nothing better than to get something on him.
The position, then, in Garland's mind was that Angus Mackay had evidence which proved his wife's title to the coal lands. But Braden thought that he, Garland, had it. Mackay, also, had evidence of his, Garland's old forgery. He must get that back. As to Braden's misapprehension he must turn that to his own advantage. Braden, in his opinion, was simply bluffing as to the nonimportance of the deeds. If he could get hold of them he could hold Braden up. Also he would knock Mackay out of a very promising property. But he must lose no time. It was a wonder Mackay had not taken some action already.
"Keep your shirt on," he advised Braden. "Don't try to bluff me. You know if Mackay got hold of those papers it would raise the devil with you. They show who really owns the property."
"They are a mistake," Mr. Braden returned. "I mean they were drawn by mistake. French gave the girl her deeds."
Garland grinned. "Suppose he had given her the others, where would you be?"
"Suppose nothing of the sort!" Mr. Braden snapped. "I tell you they're no good. You might as well give them back to me."
"What do you want them for—if they're no good?" Garland grinned.
"I'll give you a hundred dollars for them."
Garland merely laughed, and though Mr. Braden increased his offer to five hundred it was not accepted. He was reluctant to go higher, first, because it would show Garland that he considered the deeds worth real money; and second, because Garland did not seem anxious to press his blackmail. The latter circumstance puzzled Mr. Braden. What was Garland up to, anyway? He did not threaten to deal with Mackay, after that single reference to him. Mr. Braden knew that he hated Angus, and preferably would not deal with him. And so it was his own play to wait and let the next suggestion come from Garland. There, temporarily, the matter rested, because neither was in a position to press it to a finish.
But Mr. Braden, though he had what so far as he could see was a perfectly good legal defense, experienced certain inward qualms. There was always the possibility that something might go wrong with a defense, if it came to that. That old Riley, for instance, who looked like a scarred Airedale, would enjoy baiting him. He might find some flaw, some kink of law, which might be embarrassing. Mr. Braden knew that his nerve was not of the sort to stand a grueling by skilled counsel, especially if he slipped once or twice. His would be almost the sole evidence. There was comfort in that, but there was also responsibility.
Looking into the future Mr. Braden foresaw the possibility of a situation in which the possession of actual cash would be very convenient if not necessary. He might have to pay Garland a lump sum. Or, if he refused to do so and Garland made a deal with Mackay, he might have to stand a trial. It might be a mere civil action to establish the validity of the missing deeds; of it might be a charge of forgery. In any event it would give him most undesirable publicity. His affairs were very badly involved, and it would then be very hard to raise money. If all went well, the coal would pull him out of the financial hole he was in, and put him on his feet again. But meantime it would be prudent to get together as much cash as he could. And so, very quietly, he set about accumulating as much currency as possible, and as he obtained it he placed it in his office safe, having now no confidence in his private one. He regarded it as accident insurance.
Meanwhile, Garland was making arrangements of his own. The job of obtaining anything from Angus Mackay was not going to be easy, and reluctantly he made up his mind that it was too big to be tackled single-handed. Assistance meant sharing the profits, but unfortunately it seemed to be a case. He thought of Poole, and would have preferred him, but Mr. Poole packed no sand whatever. Finally he decided on Blake French. Not that Blake had any too much courage, but he hated Mackay, and having rapped him on the head once, he might be counted on to do it again if necessary. Poole might be used for a scout, without telling him a great deal.
Blake French fell in with Garland's proposals with alacrity. He had had trouble with his brothers since his father's death, culminating in a short but vicious battle with Larry, in which the latter had got the best of it. He suspected his brothers of having funds which they refused to share with him. He himself was flat broke, without money to pay for his numerous drinks. His brothers treated him as an outsider. He was sure they were holding out on him. If he could get a share in that coal proposition he would have the laugh on them; also it would be a chance to get square with Mackay. And so he and Garland began to lay plans looking to the acquisition of the missing deeds. The matter seemed simplified for them by the circumstance that Angus Mackay and his bride were now living, temporarily at least, in her cottage on the dry ranch. This strengthened the hypothesis that Mackay had the deeds and was living close to the coal prospect in order to keep an eye on it.
If Mr. Braden had been puzzled by Garland's conduct in the first instance, he became more so. Garland made him no proposition. The thought that the latter might be dickering with the French boys crossed Mr. Braden's mind, but was open to the objection that he would have to share blackmail with them. On the whole, Mr. Braden concluded that he had bluffed Garland. After a while the latter would part with the document cheaply.
Hence, when he received a visit from Judge Riley one day about the close of business hours, he was very little perturbed. Mackay perhaps had taken legal advice on his supposed right, or the judge might have come on other business. But the lawyer's first words cleared up that point.
"I am here," he said, "on behalf of my client, Mrs. Mackay. You are aware that she claims ownership of the land on which coal has been found?"
"Her claim is nonsense," Mr. Braden asserted stoutly.
"That's just what I am trying to clear up. As a result of what French told her she always supposed she owned the land."
"I'm not responsible for what French told her. I'm getting tired of this absurd claim of hers. Her land is described in her deeds. That's her evidence of title. You ought to know that."
"Yes, I know that," the judge admitted mildly. "As it happens, she is now able to produce a deed from you to her father conveying the land in question."
It was so entirely unexpected that Mr. Braden's heart decidedly misbehaved. How in the name of all bad luck had this happened? Had Garland, after all, made a dicker with Mackay? Had Mackay got those infernal deeds? Or had he merely a suspicion, which Riley was trying to confirm by a fishing trip for a damaging admission?
"Nonsense!" he said.
"Oh, no," the judge replied cheerfully. "To be quite frank with you, our position is this: French, shortly before his death, delivered to his niece a conveyance in duplicate from you to her father purporting to convey certain lands therein described. This land lies immediately east of the coal lands, but does not include them. We claim that this latter conveyance is the true and original one."
"Where did you get it?" Mr. Braden demanded.
"Suppose French, feeling his end approaching, gave it to his niece?"
"He—" Mr. Braden began and checked himself suddenly. Riley was laying verbal traps for him. He must be careful. "If you have this conveyance, let me see it."
"You will see it at the proper time."
"You mean that you haven't got it," Mr. Braden charged.
The judge smiled. "You think I am trying to trap you into an admission. Nothing of the sort. I said we could produce the documents. The only difference between them and the others is the description of the property. Same date, same witness. It's useless to deny the existence of documents which I myself have seen."
There was no doubt that the judge was telling the truth. So Garland had sold out to Mackay. Mr. Braden's front trenches were carried, but he believed his second line to be impregnable.
"I'm not denying its existence. I know all about the thing, including the fact that it was stolen from me."
"The main thing is that it exists."
"It exists, but it is worthless."
"My clients consider it rather valuable."
"I suppose they paid for it, but they've been stung. When I sold that land to Winton, a clerk in my office prepared the deeds and got the description wrong. When I discovered the error I had new deeds prepared and executed, and they are what I suppose French gave to Winton's daughter. I supposed he had given them to Winton long ago. So there you are! You've found a mare's nest, and that's all there is to it."
Judge Riley chuckled internally, though his face was grave. Braden was doing the obvious.
"Don't you compare conveyances before execution in your office?"
"Of course I do. But in this case the error was in the description which the clerk prepared and gave to the stenographer to copy. She copied it, and it was compared with what had been given her."
"Then who discovered the error?"
"I did. It struck me that the description was not correct."
"After you had signed it and French had witnessed it?"
"Y—yes." There was hesitation in his voice.
"Don't you read things over before you sign and have your signature witnessed? Why didn't it strike you then?"
"You aren't cross-examining me!" Mr. Braden asserted.
"Not at all. I am just trying to understand a situation which is rather extraordinary. Then, as I understand it, you had a new conveyance prepared, and delivered it to French, and that's all you know about it?"
"That's all," Mr. Braden confirmed.
"Why didn't you destroy the other one?"
"I suppose I overlooked it. The papers got among others."
"And into your private safe."
"Yes. And they were stolen from it."
"But then you say they're worthless. You say that the two sets of papers were drawn on the same day? The second wasn't prepared subsequently and dated back?"
Mr. Braden hesitated, trying to read the purpose behind the question. He was again beginning to distrust Riley, who undoubtedly resembled an Airedale.
"I'm almost sure it was the same day. It may have been the next."
"But at all events within, say, forty-eight hours?"
"Yes."
"Perhaps your stenographer might remember? Or your clerk?"
"That clerk is dead," said Mr. Braden without noticeable regret. "My stenographer might or might not remember. But she could identify the papers as being written about the same time on the same machine."
"How?"
"Because I had only one machine in my office at that time, and that had certain peculiarities of type. I scrapped it soon after that, and got a new one. If you'll compare the deeds, you'll see they must have been written on the same machine."
"A very fair point," the judge admitted blandly. "You have an excellent memory for details. But even if you establish that they were written on the same machine, it would not prove that they were written on the same day. For that you would have to depend on your evidence and that of your stenographer."
"I don't have to prove when they were written," Mr. Braden stated. "The date of an instrument isprima facieevidence. I know a little law myself, Riley."
"A little law is a very dangerous thing to know," the judge commented.
"And I'm not going to be cross-examined by you," Mr. Braden declared. "If you contend that those deeds were made at different times it's up to you to prove it. Can you do that, hey?"
"Yes," the judge replied. "Absolutely!"
Mr. Braden almost jumped, and his heart again misbehaved.
"H—how?" he asked in a voice which shook slightly.
"In this way," the judge replied: "The conveyance delivered by French to his niece and dated some seven years ago, is on paper bearing the watermark of a firm which did not exist, much less manufacture a single sheet of paper, until two years ago!"
It was a terrible blow, direct, unexpected, smashing through Mr. Braden's elaborate system of defense. It produced the shattering, shocking effect of high explosive. For a moment he was speechless. He rallied feebly.
"It's—it's a lie!" he stammered. "They were written on the same legal forms, printed by the same firm."
"On the same legal forms," the judge conceded. "But law stationers as a rule don't manufacture their own paper." His face became grim, his voice rose, and he drove his accusation home as in the old days of his greater prosperity he had broken other carefully prepared testimony.
"That one detail, Braden, overlooked by you and French, destroys entirely the plausible story you have invented. I am prepared to prove, and prove to the hilt, that the deeds delivered by French to my client are forgeries, prepared by you both to defraud a young woman of land which, instead of being worthless as you supposed it to be when you sold it to her father in fraudulent collusion with French, you suddenly discovered to have a high potential value. I say I am prepared to prove this, including the writing of the forged instruments on the same machine. I am prepared to prove, too, how the original deeds passed from French's possession to yours. You are in danger of standing in the dock facing a charge which carries a very heavy penalty. You must decide here and now, whether or not you will face that charge, and the damning evidence which I am prepared to bring against you."
Mr. Braden quailed before the stern voice and menacing finger of the old lawyer. He was not of the stuff to fight up hill, to play out a losing game to the last chip. What was the use? The judge had the goods on him. He sagged in his chair, all fight gone, his face white, his heart choking him.
"Don'—don't prosecute me, Riley!" he pleaded in a shaking voice. "I'll do anything you say. What do you want?"
The reason of the temporary residence of Angus and his wife at her cottage lay principally in her whim. Angus laughed at it, but yielded, and found it rather pleasant to be alone with his wife. From force of habit he found a number of jobs which needed doing, things which should be put in order before the winter; but Faith insisted that it was to be a holiday. And so by day they rode leisurely along the base of the hills, rested at noon beside clear springs, ate with healthy appetites, and in the evenings returned to the cottage. Then there would be the cheery open fire against the chill of the fall night, and by its flickering light the banjo would talk and whimper, and chuckle, until Faith, laying it aside, would snuggle against her husband, watching the red heart of the fire, giving free rein to fancy.
So, she thought and said, men and women had sat in the dim, forgotten nights of the world, when the Red Flower first bloomed on the rude hearts of cave and forest and beside the lone beaches of dead seas. Angus laughed at her fancies, but in his own heart the spell of gut and string and fire stirred something, too; and when the winds soughed around the cottage and strained through the tree-tops he found himself listening subconsciously for he knew not what.
"You are a dreamer, too," Faith accused him.
"I will be in about ten minutes."
"You might as well 'fess up. I wonder if you and I ever sat before a fire in a cave, together?"
"I don't remember it, myself."
"Oh, you may laugh, but it seems real to me—to-night. The wind in the trees is like the hiss and roar of squall-swept seas. I can hear other things, too—the soft padding of feet, and heavy, grunting, snuffling breaths. That is the tiger or the great cave bear. But they can't get in, because you have rolled the stone against the mouth of our cave."
"Suppose I forgot it?"
"Then to pay for your carelessness, you would have to fight old Sabre Tooth. You would fight to the death for me, wouldn't you?"
"And for myself."
"Be gallant, please."
"Cave men weren't gallant. They walloped ladies with clubs and abducted them."
"Happy thought. You have abducted me. No, not that, either, because I was never anybody's but yours. But there is a very great warrior who is trying to take me from you."
"The old warrior sure has some nerve. What am I doing about that time?"
"You fight," she told him, her eyes on the heart of the fire, "while I stand by praying to the unknown God that you may kill him. And you do kill him. And then you set your foot on his body and shake your war club on high and shout a great wild song to the stars. Oh, I can see you now! There is blood on your face, and the club is dripping with it, and I can hear the fierce song!"
"I'll bet the singing is fierce, too," Angus commented. But to his surprise she was trembling in his arms, every nerve aquiver. "What the dickens! Old girl, you're shaking! There now, that's plenty of that nonsense. It isn't good for sleeping."
For a moment she clung to him. "I'm awfully silly. But somehow it seemed real—to-night. I wonder if it ever did happen?"
"Of course not."
"Well, it's funny. I was just making it up. And then suddenly I felt that instead of making it up I wasrecollecting."
As she paused, Angus' ear caught a faint sound from without. To him it resembled the faint creak of a board beneath a stealthy footstep. For an instant his body tensed.
"What's the matter?" Faith asked. "Have you nerves, too?"
"Not that I know of. Turn in now and get a good rest, and don't dream of things."
But when she had gone to her room he yawned, stretched himself, wound the clock and passed into the hall leading to the kitchen. There hung his belt with holster and gun. He took the gun, went swiftly through the kitchen and outside. He circled the house, but neither saw nor heard anything, and so he went in again. But when he turned in, having extinguished the light, he laid the gun on the floor beside the bed, and in the morning smuggled it out without Faith's knowledge. Before she had risen he examined the ground around the house, but found no footprints other than their own. And so he came to the conclusion that whatever he had heard had not been a footstep.
He pottered around all morning, and in the afternoon decided to ride in to town and see Judge Riley. The latter might have some news.
"Well, I won't go," Faith decided. "I have bread to bake, and it's too far, anyway. I'll have supper ready when you get back."
But when Angus reached the judge's office it was closed. In the post office he found a note from him, consisting of four words: "Want to see you," and upon inquiry he learned that the lawyer had driven out with Dr. Wilkes to see a rancher named McLatchie who being taken suddenly ill had sent for legal as well as medical assistance. Angus decided to wait. As he strolled down the street he met Rennie emerging from Dr. Wilkes' office.
"Hello," he said. "What's the matter withyou?"
"Nothing with me," Rennie returned. "I was just doin' an errand. But they tell me the doc's out."
"What is it?" Angus asked, for Rennie's face was troubled.
"You ain't heard? Well, Mary, that granddaughter of old Paul Sam, has been missin' some days, and to-day they find her—drowned."
"Good Lord!" Angus exclaimed. "How did it happen?" Rennie's face darkened.
"I dunno. They say she drowned herself. They say some white man is mixed up in it. She was a notch or two above the ordinary klootch, and so—oh, well, it's just the same old rotten mess!"
"Poor girl!" Angus said after a moment of silence. "This will be hard on old Paul Sam. Do the Indians know this white man?"
"I dunno. I heard—mind you I dunno what there is in it—that Blake French is the man. He's dirty enough. But I dunno's the Injuns know it. I seen old Paul Sam. He wasn't talkin'. Just sittin' starin' straight ahead. And the klootch lyin' on her bed alongside him where they'd put her down. Ugh! Some of 'em wanted to send the doc out. He makes reports of deaths and such to the government, and then he's coroner. So I come."
The event touched Angus deeply. He had known the dead girl all his life. She was, as Rennie said, a notch or two above the ordinary klootch. Paul Sam, too, was a good Indian, a friend of his and of his father's, so far as the white man who knows the Indian admits him to friendship. It would be a heavy blow for the old man. But unless some of the young bucks took the law into their own hands it was unlikely that the man responsible for the tragedy—Blake French or another—would suffer at all.
It was long after dark when the judge drove in, and Angus waiting at the livery stable, greeted him.
"How's McLatchie?" he asked. The judge, with emphasis, consigned McLatchie to torment.
"A bellyache!" he exclaimed, "and he thought he was going to die. I wanted Wilkes to cut him open, just as a lesson. And will you believe me, the damned Scotch—I beg your pardon, Angus, I mean the damned lowlander—when the fear of God produced by the fear of death left his rotten heart with the pain from his equally rotten stomach, refused to make his will. I made him do it, though—and pay for it. Well, you got my note. Come up to the office, where we can talk."
But when he had lit a couple of lamps which illuminated his office and turned to his desk he stopped short.
"Somebody's been in here," he said. "Things are not as I left them." He drew out the drawers of his desk. "Aha!" he exclaimed, for the papers they held had evidently been taken out and jammed back in disorder. "Now what misguided idiot thought a law office worth robbing? I wonder, now—By the Lord! but I believe that's it!"
"What?"
"Why somebody's been afteryourdocuments," the judge replied. "O-ho, Braden, me buck! You must think I'm a fool!"
"You mean you think Braden was trying to get back the original deeds?"
"And something else. It's a poor tribute he pays to my intelligence, thinking I'd leave such papers lying at the mercy of a flimsy door lock. People think I am careless, old-fashioned, because they can't see a safe in my office. Well, anybody can blow a safe—if the safe can be found. I had one blown once, and it was nearly the ruin of me. But look here!" A section of wainscoting swung out under his hand, revealing the face of a steel safe. "No local man had anything to do with installing this," the judge said; "and back of it is a false wall to my inner room." He spun the combination and threw the door open. Taking out a thick envelope he drew from it a single sheet of paper which he handed to Angus.
Angus read in amazement. It was a brief statement signed by Braden acknowledging forgery by French and himself, and an acknowledgment of the authenticity of the original deeds.
"How on earth did you get this?" he asked.
The judge told him.
"Well, that was mighty clever of you," Angus said in admiration. "I'd never have thought of that."
"Braden didn't either," the judge said drily. "And what's more he never thought that my statement about the watermark might be worth verifying."
"Do you mean you bluffed him?" Angus exclaimed.
"It was the only way," the judge nodded. "His story, stuck to through thick and thin, would have prevailed because we had no evidence to contradict it. But being guilty, it never occurred to him to demand an inspection of the papers. It may have occurred to him now. He may have searched my office in my absence, hoping to get back his confession as well as the deeds. But most of us realize our mistakes too late."
"Judge" Angus said solemnly, "you are a wonder."
"When I was your age I would have agreed with that," the judge grinned. "But I am merely an old dog with some experience of foxes. This settles Braden's hash. He will leave town—and possibly leave some creditors."
"I thought he had plenty of money."
"He has lost a good deal lately in speculation—lost it or tied it up. I imagine he will get together what cash he can and leave. His debts are none of my business. I will now have these deeds registered, and you will have no more trouble about title."
"When you send me your bill, put in the watermark."
"My bill will have a sufficiently high watermark to suit you," the judge chuckled. "And now, young man, I'm too old to be modest. Naturally you will incorporate, sooner or later, to work this property to advantage. I want to incorporate you, and I want such of the company's legal work as I am competent to handle."
"That's all of it."
"I meant that," the judge admitted. "And if I were permitted to buy a block of stock on as good terms as anybody I would take it."
"That goes, of course," Angus agreed, "and it doesn't by any means cancel our obligation to you. And now I must be drifting. My wife is alone, and I was to have been back by supper."
"You'll have a dark ride."
"My horse has good feet. Good night, judge, and thank you again."
The wind struck Angus hard as he left the office. It was blowing great guns, and as the judge had said, it was very dark. When he left the lights behind it was better as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. But ragged clouds hung low, and the mountains usually visible against even the sky of night could not be seen. The wind was roaring through the tops of the firs with a sound of running waves. But the road was good, and when Chief of his own notion struck into a long, trail-devouring lope, he did not check him.
He was suddenly anxious to get back to Faith. He wished to tell her the good news, but that did not account for the uneasy feeling that possessed him, tugging at his ordinarily steady nerves. There seemed to be no reason for it; yet it persisted and even increased. He realized with disgust that he was nervous. Something seemed to impend. The roar of the wind was sinister, minatory. The darkness seemed to hover above like a bird of prey, ready to strike. He swore angrily at himself for such fancies.
"I've got the nerves of a squirrel to-night," he muttered. "I'll be seeing things next. Go on, Chief, old boy! Leak out of here!"
With the touch of his feel the big chestnut settled to the business of covering ground. The wind increased, and with it came rain, huge drops driving like buckshot, stinging as they hit. Somewhere off the road a tree snapped and crashed down.
"Timber!" Angus shouted to the darkness, for the storm and the pace were getting into his blood, and with their entry his nervousness was replaced by a feeling of exhilaration. Then the chestnut rose in a clean sailing jump, and Angus realized that he had cleared a fallen tree. But he did not slacken speed.
They were off the main road now, on the less used trail, and the ranch was little over a mile distant. Angus could picture Faith waiting, wondering what had detained him, perhaps a little anxious because of the storm. She would laugh when he told her that he had suffered from nerves. She—
Chief snorted, leaped, and something caught Angus across the chest. For a moment it yielded, tautened and snapped back, tearing his tight grip loose. At the pace he was riding it plucked him from the saddle as a hawk lifts a chick from the brood, flinging him backward to the earth. He struck it heavily on his shoulders and the back of his head. He had a dim impression of somebody or something leaping on him, of a blow, and then darkness shut down absolutely.
Toward five o'clock, her bread being baked, Faith put in the oven a pan containing two young mallards and a blue grouse, all overlaid with strips of bacon. She made her vegetables ready and set the table. Now and then she glanced from the window expectantly, but saw nothing of Angus. When dusk came she lighted the lamps.
Finally she ate her own supper alone, slightly annoyed. Angus had promised to be back in time. Something must have detained him. She put his meal in the warming oven, sat down and tried to read. But somehow the book failed to interest. She had recourse to the banjo, but that little sister of the lonesome failed of charm. The wind rose until it was blowing a gale. Once she went to the door and looked out. The darkness seemed intense.
Ten o'clock came. What on earth was keeping Angus? She began to worry, which she told herself was absurd. Resolutely she sat down and picked up a book. She would not allow herself to be stampeded by nerves. She made up her mind to sit on that couch before the fire until her husband returned.
She found it hard to keep this resolution. She craved movement. She wanted a drink, an apple, a different book—anything, to get up and move around. But she resisted these assaults on her will.
Her thoughts reverted to the foolery of the preceding night. She had pretended to be a cave woman with her man. Now she was alone. What happened to those ancient women whose men went out never to return? How long did they feed the fire o' nights, and listen alone to the noises of the dark? The fancy proved more attractive than the book. She leaned back comfortably, enjoying the play of her imagination, constructing the life story of an unknown sister in the dawn of the world and presently, in proof that there was nothing seriously wrong with her nerves, she fell asleep before the fire.
She woke with a start. There were footsteps in the house. Angus, then, had come back. She smiled, contented. She would scold him—in fun. But as she listened the footsteps seemed to differ from his firm, light tread. The handle of the door turned and a man who was not Angus stood framed in the opening—a man who wore a handkerchief across his face, whose eyes, invisible beneath the shadow of a broad hatbrim, peered at her through holes cut in the fabric.
Though a horrible, sinking feeling of nervousness assailed her, she did not cry out. She regarded the intruder in silence. As he came into the room she stared at him—at his leather chaps, at the gun in its holster, at his hands, taking in every little detail. He spoke.
"Don't be scared," he said in deep tones which she judged were unnatural. "You won't be hurt."
"I'm not afraid," she replied, and was surprised to find her voice quite steady. "What do you want?"
"I want those deeds."
He could mean only the deeds Turkey had given her. Then he must be an emissary of Braden. Obviously it was not Braden himself. But how could he know who had the deeds?
"Now, listen," the masked man added as she did not reply: "I know you have them. I know they are here in this house. You'll save trouble by handing them over."
"I'll do nothing of the sort," Faith told him; "and you had better go before my husband comes home."
The masked man laughed. "Your husband won't be home for a while. If you won't give them to me I'll find them myself."
"Very well," Faith replied. "But don't break anything, please."
"You've got nerve, all right," the man conceded. As he spoke another man similarly masked entered, standing by the door. The first turned to him and they held a whispered conversation. "Well, we'll look for 'em," the first man announced. "If you're sensible you'll just sit quiet."
Faith sat quietly while they took a leisurely survey of the room. Her writing desk in the corner was their first objective point. Suddenly it came to her that their manner of procedure was too leisurely. They did not fear interruption. She remembered the first man's words when she had spoken of her husband. Was his continued absence in some way due to them? She felt a sickening apprehension, a feeling of desertion, of helplessness.
She began to study the intruders, to find if she could note something by which to identify them. There was nothing recognizable about the first. The second was a big man. His face was quite invisible. A riding slicker concealed most of his figure. She had not heard his voice. And yet she found something elusively familiar in his presence.
From her bedroom she heard the sounds of drawers pulled out and closed and the slam of a trunk lid. She would have been amused at the hopelessness of their search but for her growing anxiety for her husband. Even if he did come, they were armed and he was not. The search progressed from one room to another, and as it did so it became more impatient. At last they gave it up, and the first man advanced to her.
"You have those papers pretty well cached," he admitted. "Where are they?"
"I thought you were going to find them."
"You can cut that out. Now you're going to tell us where they are."
"Am I?"
"That's what I said. Now see here; I'm going to give it to you straight: Your husband isn't going to come home till we turn him loose. He told us you had those deeds. When you give 'em up you'll see him, and not before."
"My husband never told you anything of the sort," Faith said. "You're merely bluffing."
"Bluffing or not, we're going to get what we came for. You're alone. There isn't a living soul in miles. We don't want to hurt you or your husband, but if you've got any sense you'll give up, and save trouble for everybody."
"What you want isn't here," Faith told him.
"Where are those deeds? Who has them?"
"I won't tell you."
"We know they are here. Riley hasn't got them, because we've gone through his office. And your husband hasn't got them, because we've gone throughhim. So you have them. You can't bluff us. No more nonsense, now!" He caught her wrist with one hand, while with the other he thrust the muzzle of his gun in her face. "Hand them over," he snarled ferociously, "or say your prayers!"
But in spite of the fact that the ring of steel almost touched her forehead Faith was not convinced. It was melodrama, tawdry, poor. The man was a poor actor. She laughed in his face.
"Take care!" she said, "you are hurting my wrist."
For a moment the muzzle touched her forehead and the grip tightened. Then he flung her wrist aside.
"What the hell can you do with a woman, anyway?" he demanded in disgust. But his companion sprang forward. "You let her bluff you," he growled hoarsely, "but she won't bluff me!" He caught Faith by the throat. "Where are they?" he demanded. "Talk quick, or I'll choke you!" His fingers compressed her throat till she gasped. The strong taint of alcohol met her nostrils.
"No, damn it!" the first man cried, in protest; but his companion cursed him, swinging Faith between them.
"You keep out of this!" he cried savagely. "I'll make her talk inside a minute!" And his grip shut down.
This time there was no bluff. Faith realized the primitive savagery of the hands that were laid on her. With the knowledge she fought wildly, like a cornered animal. For a moment the other man was forgotten. Anger and fear lent her strength. She caught at the handkerchief which hid her assailant's face, and as he loosed one hand to catch her wrist, she broke away, tearing the cloth with her. She reeled back, gasping, disheveled, her dress torn at the throat, her hair bursting from confining pins falling on her shoulders.
"Blake!" she cried hoarsely. "Blake French!"
Stripped of his disguise, Blake French faced her, lowering, ferocious—but suddenly afraid.
"I wasn't going to hurt you," he said.
Her hands went to her throat.
"To hurt me? You liar! You utter brute! Is that what you will tell my husband?"
Blake's face contorted. He took a step forward.
"You'll tell him, will you?"
"Of course I will!" Faith cried.
Blake French knew that her recognition was disastrous. The whole plan, including the blackmail of Braden, had depended upon recovering the deeds without recognition. But now the matter of the deeds faded into nothingness. His innate brutality had swept him away, carried him too far. Apart from the law he knew the penalty that Angus Mackay would exact from the man who laid hands on his wife. But Angus was lying roped, helpless, a mile away. He was afraid, desperate. There must be silence; at all costs, silence.
He advanced. Faith sprang back, putting the table between them. But Garland suddenly interposed. Like Blake, he saw the collapse of their plans, but he accepted the failure.
"No more of that!" he said. "Let her alone!"
Blake turned on him in fury.
"You damned fool!" he snarled. "We've got to fix her, and Mackay, too, now!"
"You're crazy!" Garland cried. "Do you want to hang?"
"And do you want Mackay to kill you?" Blake retorted. He sprang forward, caught the table and thrust it aside. But Garland caught his arm.
"Let her alone, I tell you!" he repeated. "Come on; it's all off. Let's get out of here!"
Blake with a swift jerk ripped the concealing handkerchief from Garland's face. "Let her take a look at you, too!" he cried and flinging him aside drew his gun and turned on Faith.
Faith, facing him helpless, found herself looking into the eyes of Murder. It was useless to run. She stood and waited, white to the lips, but looking him in the face. The gun rose. Garland, recovering, sprang at Blake. But at that instant the door went wide with the crash of a shattered catch, and into the room bounded Angus Mackay.
He was hatless, wet, plastered with mud. His eyes blazed in his swarthy face. At a glance they took in the disorder, the overturned table; Faith standing at bay, Blake French with drawn gun, Garland suddenly arrested in his spring. Then in grim, deadly silence he launched himself at Blake.
Faith saw the gun shift and swing. Its report in the confines of the room was shattering. Garland struck Blake's arm as the weapon blazed a second time; but Angus staggered and pitched forward at Blake's feet.
Forgetful of all else Faith sprang forward and knelt beside him, lifting his head. Blood oozed horribly from his dark hair. She turned her face, white, anguished, to his slayer. Above her, Garland in panic cursed Blake.
"Now you've done it!" he said between oaths. "You've killed him."
"She—she'll tell!" Blake chattered with quivering lips. "We've got to—" He raised his gun with twitching hand. Garland caught it. He thrust his own weapon in Blake's face.
"If you try that I'll blow your head off!" he declared. With a quick wrench he twisted the weapon from Blake, and menacing him with his gun shoved him toward the door. "We've got to make a get-away. Get the horses, quick!" At the door he hesitated. Returning he knelt beside Faith.
"Let me see a minute," he said. Her senses were too dulled to shrink from him. Suddenly he drew a quick breath, almost a gasp of relief. "He isn't dead."
"Not dead?" Faith cried.
"Not by a long ways. Just creased along the scalp. I guess I hit the gun just in time, and I'm mighty near as glad as you are. He'll be all right. I just want to say, before I pull out, that I never meant to do more than scare you. Maybe you think I'm lying, and I don't blame you. But I'm not."
"I believe you," Faith said. In her sudden relief lesser things did not matter. "I don't know what to do. Stay and help me, please."
"I guess you don't understand," he returned, shaking his head. "This would mean about twenty years apiece for me and Blake if we're caught. And then"—he nodded at Angus—"when he comes around there won't be room enough in this country for him and us."
"But I'll tell him you helped me—how you struck Blake's arm—and afterward!"
"You're one white girl," Garland said with emphasis, "but I'm in too deep. You can tell him if you like, and you can tell him I'm pulling out. I never meant to do more than bluff you. Good-by."
He was gone. Faith got water, towels, and bathed Angus' head. Touching the wound with tender fingers she found that as Garland had said it was apparently in the scalp merely. Presently Angus sighed, stirred, muttered and opened his eyes.
"Hello!" he said, and as recollection came to him he sat up suddenly, staring around. "Where are they?" he demanded.
"They are gone, dear. It's all right. Don't try to get up."
But he shook his head impatiently and rose to his feet.
"What happened? Blake French and Garland! What were they doing? What's the matter with your hair? Your dress is torn." A tremendous expletive burst from him. "What are those marks on your throat?"
Her hand fluttered upward involuntarily. "Nothing. Never mind now. Please——"
"They laid hands on you!" he cried. "Onyou! And I wasn't here! Tell me. No, no, I'm all right. Tell me!"
She told him, seeing his face set and grow rigid. He groaned.
"They stretched a rope between two trees, and I rode into it. The fall almost knocked me out, and they finished the job. They roped me up. It took me a long time to get loose." He held out his wrists, stripped of skin to the raw flesh. "I was afraid of some devil's work, but——" He broke off, shaking his head, and put his hand to his left side. When he removed it his finger tips were stained.
"Oh, you are hurt—twice!" Faith cried.
"I don't think this is much." He stripped himself to the waist. The lamplight revealed a red furrow lying along his ribs, but though it bled freely the skin was little more than broken. To Faith's pleading to lie down he shook his head. On his instructions she brought an old sheet which he ripped into a long bandage. "That was Blake's first shot," he said as he replaced his garments. "He'll have to do better shooting than that—next time."
"Next time?" she exclaimed.
He did not reply, but going into the hall came back with a rifle in one hand and his gun belt in the other.
"Old girl, please rustle me some grub—cold meat and bread—and put it in an old sugar sack."
"But Angus, what are you going to do?"
"To do? I am going after Blake French and Garland, of course."
"But you are hurt. You are not fit—"
"I am not hurt at all—to speak of. I have a long account to settle with Blake French and Garland—yes, and with the whole bunch of those Frenches and Braden as well—and now I am going to clean it up."
"But if I forgive—"
"Forgive!" he interrupted bitterly. "It doesn't matter to me what you forgive. You are a woman. But I am a man and you are my wife, and I can see the marks of Blake French's fingers on your flesh. As surely as God lives I will kill him, or he will kill me. About Garland I don't know—yet."
His will was set, hardened; his mood black, deadly. Immediately he set about his simple preparations. He knew that Blake and Garland would not wait his coming. In all probability they would break for the hills, where he must be prepared to follow them. He had found Chief, who had come home of his own accord, waiting by the gate. A pack pony would hamper his movements. He shoved his food in a sack, rolled a single blanket in a tarp, got out a heavy sweater and changed his boots for shoe-packs. Then he held out his arms to Faith. She clung to him.
"Don't go!" she pleaded. "If anything should happen—now—"
"I must go," he said. "If I didn't I should be less than a man. Nothing will happen—to me. To-morrow—or it's to-day now, I guess—go to the ranch and stay there till I get back."
He kissed her gently and put her from him. She followed him to the door and saw him mount. He waved his hand and vanished in the blackness of the night.
Faith returned to the living-room and sank into a chair. She was shaken, bone-tired, sick at heart. A lifetime seemed to have passed since she and Angus had sat there the night before, indulging in make-believe playing at tragedy. Now tragedy had invaded their lives. It was like an evil dream.
How long she sat there she never knew. Nor did she know how she became aware that she was not alone. She turned her head to see a figure standing behind her. Her shaken nerves forced a cry from her lips.
It was the old Indian, Paul Sam. There was a rifle under his arm, and around his middle was a belt from which in a beaded scabbard hung a long, broad-bladed knife. He was hatless, and his long, gray hair hung in two braids in front of his shoulders.
"All right," he said. "You not be scared. Where him Angus?"
"He isn't here."
The old Indian's eyes roved around the room, resting on the signs of disorder. "Iktah mamook?" he queried.
"I don't understand."
"What you mamook? What you do?" He threw up his head, his nostrils twitching like a dog's. "Smell um smoke," he said. "Somebody shoot. You see um Blake French?"
"He was here, but he has gone," Faith told him.
The old Indian's dark eyes peered at her, noting her agitation. "Me ol' man," he said. "Angus, him my tillikum. You him klootchman, him wife, all same my tillikum. Goo'-by."
Faith, left alone, knew she could not sleep. She dreaded the darkness, the lying waiting for slumber which would not come. She decided to stay before the fire till daylight. Then she would go to the Mackay ranch.
The wind had ceased, and in the comparative stillness she heard a low, distant drumming which she recognized as the sound of horses' hoofs. They approached, halted, and she started up in apprehension. What would happen next? Was everybody abroad that night? Footsteps tramped on the veranda; somebody knocked.
"Who is there?" she demanded.
"Me—Turkey."
She opened the door. There stood Turkey. Shadowy in the background was Rennie with the horses. She saw that Turkey was armed.
"What's the matter?" he asked. "You look sick. Where's Angus?"
She told him, finding relief in the confidence. Turkey might bring Angus back, or see that no harm befell him. As he listened a hard light came into Turkey's eyes.
"If Angus don't get Blake and Nick Garland, I will," he declared. "But I didn't know they were here. I thought they were with the bunch that did up Braden."
"Did up Braden?"
Turkey nodded. "The French boys—I thought sure Blake was in it, but I guess he couldn't have been—blew open Braden's safe and got away with the whole works. Braden was shot. Dave and I are part of a posse raised to round them up, and I wanted Angus. Braden, before he died, said that Gavin French is the man that shot father."