Sunset plowed along over the prairie. True enough, he was the rocking-horse Hazel had declared him to be. But she might have added that he was the speediest horse ever foaled on her father's range.
Gordon was in no mood to spare him. But, press him as he might, he seemed incapable of sounding the full depths of his resources.
Had Gordon only taken the course of the impatient Slosson he would have arrived in time to have prevented the catastrophe. But as it was he made the coalpits, and, finding no trace of either Hazel or the agent, with prompt decision he headed at once for the southern corrals. It was some time before he discovered the tracks he sought, and was beginning to think that in some extraordinary fashion he had missed them altogether. The thought stirred his jealousy, and—but he put all doubt from his mind, and further bustled the long-suffering Sunset. Then came the moment when he first saw the hoof-prints in the sand of the cattle track. In a moment his thoughts cleared and his old fears urged him on.
He was right now, he knew. The hills about him were growing in height and ruggedness. The corrals were only a few miles on, and Sunset was racing down the track as if he were aware of the threatening danger to the girl whom he had so often carried on his back. But even if he were he was utterly unprepared for the furious thrashing of his present rider's heels which came as they were approaching one great shaggy hill to the south of them, in answer to a thin, high-pitched shrill for "Help!"
Gordon heard and understood. He had been right, after all, and a terrible panic and fury assailed him. Sunset was racing now, with his barrel low to the ground. Then as they came into the shadow of the hill the faithful creature felt the bit in his mouth jar suddenly and painfully, and he nearly sank on to his haunches.
Gordon was out of the saddle and rushing headlong like some rage-maddened bull.
Something had happened, and Hazel, in a partial daze, scarcely understood quite what it was. All she knew was that she was no longer struggling desperately in the arms of a man, with his hideous face thrust towards hers with obvious intention. She had fought as she had never dreamed of having to fight in all her life, and in her extremity she had shrilled again and again for "Help!" which, had she thought, she would have known was miles from the lonely spot where she was struggling. Then had happened that something she could not understand. She only knew that she was no longer struggling, and that hideous, coarse, passion-lit face had vanished from before her terrified eyes.
She had heard a voice, a familiar voice, hoarse with passion. The words it had uttered were the foulest blasphemy, such words as only a man uses when in the heat of battle and his desire is to kill. Then had passed that nightmare face from before her eyes.
After some moments her mental faculties became less uncertain, and with their clearing she became aware of a confusion of sounds. She heard the sound of blows and the incessant shuffling of feet through the tall prairie grass. She looked about her.
All in a minute she was on her feet, her eyes wide and staring with an expression half of terror, half of the wildest excitement. A fight was going on—a fight in which six feet three of science was arrayed against lesser stature but equal strength and a blend of animal fury which yearned to kill.
David Slosson came at his hated adversary in lunging rushes and with all his weight and muscle, hoping to clinch and reduce the battle to the less scientific condition of a "rough-and-tumble" as it is known only in America. Once he could achieve a definite clinch he knew that the advantage would lie with him. He knew the game of "chew and gouge" as few men knew it. He had learned it in his earlier days of lumber camps.
But Gordon had steadied himself from his first mad rush. It was the sight of Hazel in this man's clutches that had roused the desire for murder in his hot blood. Now it was different. Now it was a fight, a fight such as he could enjoy; and such were his feelings that he was determined it should be a fight to a finish, even if that finish should mean a killing.
He had no difficulty in punishing. His opponent's arms came at him wildly, while his own leads and counters struck home with smashes of a staggering nature. Twice he got in an upper-cut which set his man reeling, and in each case he smashed home his left immediately with all the force of his great shoulders. But David Slosson was tough. He seemed to thrive on punishment, and he came again and again.
Gordon was in his element. His physical condition had never been more perfect, and, provided that clinch was prevented, nothing on earth could save his man. The blood was already streaming from Slosson's cheek, and an ugly split disfigured his lower lip.
Now he came in with his head down—a favorite bull rush of the "rough-and-tumble." Gordon saw it coming and waited. He side-stepped, and smashed a terrific blow behind the left ear. The man stumbled, but saved himself. With an inarticulate attempt at an oath he was at the boxer again. Another rush, but it checked half-way, and a violent kick was aimed at Gordon's middle. It missed its mark, but caught him on the side of the knee. The pain of the blow for a moment robbed the younger man of his caution. He responded with a smashing left and right. They both landed, but in the rush his loose coat was caught and held as the agent fell.
Slosson clung to the coat as a terrier will cling to a stick. In spite of the rain of blows battering his head he held on. It was the first hold he needed. The second came a moment later. His other arm crooked about Gordon's right knee. The next moment they were on the ground in the throes of a wild, demoniacal "rough-and-tumble."
The science of the boxer could serve Gordon no longer. He knew it. He knew also that the fight was more than leveled up. The struggle had degenerated into an inhuman aim for those vital parts which would leave the victim blind or maimed for life.
By the luck of Providence he fell uppermost. His hands being free and his strength at its greatest, also possessing nothing of the degraded mind of the rough-and-tumble fighter, he went for his opponent's throat, and got his grip just as he felt the other's teeth clip, in a savage snap, at his right ear. It was a happy miss, or he knew he would have spent the rest of his life with only one ear, and possibly part of the other.
But there were other things to avoid. He crushed the man's head upon the ground, while his great hands tightened their grip upon his throat. But Slosson's hands were not idle. They struggled up, and Gordon felt that they were groping for his throat. His own pressure increased.
"Squeal, you swine!" he roared. "Squeal, or I'll choke the life out of you!"
The man was unable to squeal under the terrible throat-hold. His breath was coming in gasps. All of a sudden those groping hands made a lunge at Gordon's eyes. One finger even struck his left eye with intent to gouge it out. Gordon threw back his head, but dared not release his hold. His only other defense was an instinctive one. He opened his mouth and made a wolfish snap at the hand that had sought to blind him. He bit three of its fingers to the bone. There was a cry from the man under his hands, and the straining body beneath him ceased to struggle.
Gordon released his hold and stood up. He aimed one violent kick of disgust at the man's ribs and turned away.
Gordon breathed hard. He wiped the dust from his perspiring face, as a man almost unconsciously will do after a great exertion. His eyes, however, remained on his defeated adversary. Presently he moved away a little uncertainly. A moment later, equally uncertainly, he picked up his soft felt hat. Then, his gaze still steadily fixed on the object of his concern, he all unconsciously smoothed his ruffled hair and replaced his hat upon his head.
Hazel, too, was tensely regarding the deathly silent figure of David Slosson. A subtle fear was clutching at her heart. So still. He was so very still.
Gordon's breathing became normal, but his eyes remained absurdly grave. He approached the prostrate man. But before he reached his side he paused abruptly and breathed a deep sigh of relief—and began to laugh.
"Right!" he cried. Nor was he addressing any one in particular.
Hazel heard his exclamation, and the clutching fear at her heart relaxed its grip. She understood that Gordon, too, had shared her dread.
Now she shifted her regard to the victor. Her eyes were full of a deep, unspeakable feeling. Gordon was looking in another direction, so, for the moment, she had nothing to conceal.
The man's attention was upon the horses. A strange diffidence made him reluctant to follow his impulse and approach Hazel. He had no pride in his victory. Only regret for the exhibition he had made before her. Sunset and Slosson's horse were grazing amicably together within twenty yards of the trail. The fight had disturbed them not one whit. The Lady Jane had moved off farther, and, in proud isolation, ignored everybody and everything concerned with the indecent exhibition.
Gordon secured the livery horse to a bush, and rode off on Sunset to collect the Lady Jane. When he returned the defeated man was stirring.
One glance told Gordon all he cared to know, and he passed over to where Hazel was still standing, and in silence and quite unsmilingly he held the Lady Jane for her to mount.
Hazel avoided his eyes, but not from any coldness. She feared lest he should witness that which now, with all her might, she desired to conceal. Her feelings were stirred almost beyond her control. This man had come to her rescue—he had rescued her—by that great chivalrous manhood that was his. And somehow she felt that she might have known that he would do so.
Gordon was looking at David Slosson, who was already sitting up. Once Hazel was in the saddle he moved nearer to the disfigured agent.
"If you're looking for any more," he said coldly, "you can find it. But don't you ever come near Buffalo Point again or Mallinsbee's ranch. If you do—I'll kill you!"
David Slosson made no reply. But his eyes followed the two figures as they rode off, full of a bitter hatred that boded ill for their futures should chance come his way.
For some time the speeding horses galloped on, their riders remaining silent. A strange awkwardness had arisen between them. There was so much to say, so much to explain. Neither of them knew how to begin, or where. So they were nearing home when finally it was Gordon whose sense of humor first came to the rescue. They had drawn their horses down to a walk to give them a breath.
Gordon turned in his saddle. His blue eyes were absurdly smiling.
"Well?" he observed interrogatively.
The childlike blandness of his expression was all Hazel needed to help her throw off the painful restraint that was fast overwhelming her. Again he had saved her, but this time it was from tears.
"Well?" she smiled back at him through the watery signs of unshed tears.
"I guess Sunset 'll hate this trail worse than anything around Buffalo Point," Gordon said, with a great effort at ease. "He got a flogging I'll swear he never merited."
"Dear old Sunset," said the girl softly. "And—and he can go."
"Go? Why, he's an express train. Say, the Twentieth Century, Limited, isn't a circumstance to him."
Gordon's laugh sounded good in Hazel's ears, and the last sign of tears was banished. It had been touch and go. She had wanted to laugh and to scream during the fight. Afterwards she had wanted only to weep. Now she just felt glad she was riding beside a man whom she regarded as something in the nature of a hero.
"I sort of feel I owe him an apology," Gordon went on doubtfully. "Same as I owe you one. I—I'm afraid I made a—a disgusting exhibition of myself. I—I wish I hadn't nearly bitten off that cur's fingers. It's—awful. It—was that or lose my eyesight."
Hazel had nothing to say. A shiver passed over her, but it was caused by the thought that the man beside her might have been left blinded.
"You see, that was 'rough and tough,'" Gordon went on, feeling that he must explain. "It's not human. It's worse than the beasts of the fields. I—I'm ashamed. But I had to save my eyes. I thought I'd killed him."
"I'm glad you didn't," Hazel said in a low voice. Then she added quickly, "But not for his sake."
Gordon nodded.
"He deserved anything."
Suddenly Hazel turned a pair of shining eyes upon him.
"Oh, I wish I were a man!" she cried. "Deserved? Oh, he deserved everything; but so did I. I'll never do it again. Never, never, never! You warned me. You knew. And it was only you who saved me from the result of my folly. I—I thought I was smart enough to deal with him. I—I thought I was clever." She laughed bitterly. "I thought, because I run our ranch and can do things that few girls can that way, I could beat a man like that. Say, Mr. Van Henslaer, I'm—just what he took me for—a silly country girl. Oh, I feel so mad with myself, and if it hadn't been for you I don't know what would have happened. Oh, if I could only have fought like you. It—it was wonderful. And—I brought it all on you by my folly."
There was a strange mixture of emotion in the girl's swift flow of words. There was a bitter feeling of self-contempt, a vain and helpless regret; but in all she said, in her shining eyes and warmth of manner, there was a scarcely concealed delight in her rescuer's great manhood, courage and devotion. If Gordon beheld it, it is doubtful if he read it aright. For himself, a great joy that he had been of service in her protection pervaded him. Just now, for him, all life centered round Hazel Mallinsbee and her well-being.
"You brought nothing on," he said, his eyes smiling tenderly round at her. "He's a disease that would overtake any girl." Then he began to laugh, with the intention of dispelling all her regrets. "Say, he's just one of life's experiences, and experience is generally unpleasant. See how much he's taught us both. You've learned that a feller who can wear a suit that sets all sense of good taste squirming most generally has a mind to match it. I've learned that no honesty of methods, whether in scrapping or anything else, is a match for the unscrupulous methods of a low-down mind. Guess we'll both pigeon-hole those facts and try not to forget 'em. But say—there's worse worrying," he added, with an absurdly happy laugh.
"Worse?"
"Only worse because it hasn't happened yet—like the other things have. You see, the worst always lies in those things we don't know."
"You're thinking of the Buffalo Point scheme?"
"Partly."
"Partly?"
"Did he tell you anything?"
Hazel nodded.
"He said you'd—turned him out of the office."
"That all?" Gordon was chuckling.
"He said you'd told him to go to——" Hazel's eyes were smiling.
"Just so. I did," returned Gordon. "That's the trouble now. I've got to face your father. I've hit on a plan to beat this feller. I've got the help of Peter McSwain and some of the boys at Snake's. I'd a notion we'd pull the thing off, so I just took it into my own hands—and your father don't know of it. I'm worrying how he'll feel. You see, if I fail, why, I've busted the whole contract. And now this thing. Say, what's going to happen next?" As he put his final question his smiling face looked ludicrously serene.
Hazel had entirely recovered from her recent experiences. She laughed outright. More and more this man appealed to her. His calm, reckless courage was a wonderful thing in her eyes. Their whole schemes might be jeopardized by that afternoon's work, but he had acted without thought of consequence, without thought of anybody or anything beyond the fact that he yearned to beat this man Slosson, and would spare nothing to do so. What was this wild scheme he had suddenly conceived, almost the first moment he was left in sole control?
She tried to look serious.
"Can you tell it me now?" she asked.
"I could, of course, but——"
"You'd rather wait to see father about it."
"I don't know," said Gordon, with a wry twist of the lips and a shrug. "Say, did you ever feel a perfect, idiotic fool? No, of course you never have, because you couldn't be one. I feel that way. Guess it's a sort of reaction. I just know I've busted everything. The whole of our scheme is on the rocks, through me, and, for the life of me, somehow I—I don't care. I've hit up that cur so he won't want his med'cine again for years, and it was good, because it was for you. So I don't just care two cents about anything. Say, I'm learning I'm alive, same as you talked about the first day I met you, and it's you are teaching me. But the champagne of life isn't just Life. Guess Life is just a cheap claret. You're the champagne of my life. That being so, I guess I'm a drunkard for champagne."
Hazel was held serious by some feeling that also kept her silent. Somehow she could no longer face those shining, smiling, ingenuous blue eyes. She wanted to, because she felt they were the most beautiful in the whole world, and she longed to go on gazing into them forever and ever. But something forced her to deny herself, and she kept hers straight ahead.
Gordon went on.
"Say, I haven't said anything wrong, have I?" he cried, fearful of her displeasure. "You see, I can't put things as they run through my head. That's one of the queer things about a feller. You know, I've got a whole heap of beautiful language running around in my head, and when I try to turn it loose it comes out all mussed up and wrong. Guess you've never been like that. That's where girls are so clever. D'you know, if you were to ask me just to pass the salt at supper it would sound to me like the taste of ice-cream?"
Hazel looked round at the earnest face with a swift sidelong glance. Then her laughter would no longer be denied.
"Would it?" she cried.
"Say, don't laugh at a feller. I'm in great trouble," Gordon went on quickly.
"Trouble?"
"Sure. Wouldn't you be if you'd bust up a man's scheme the same as I have, and if the only person in the world whose opinion you cared for can't help but think you all sorts of a fool?"
Hazel's smile had become very, very tender.
"Who thinks you a—fool?"
"Anybody with sense."
"Then I'm afraid I've got no sense."
Gordon found himself looking into the girl's serious eyes.
"You—don't think me—a—fool?" he cried incredulously.
Hazel had no longer any inclination to laugh. A great emotion suddenly surged through her heart, and her pretty oval face was set flushing.
"When a woman owes a man what I owe you, if he were the greatest fool in the world to others, to that woman he becomes all that is great and fine, and—and—oh, just everything she can think good of him. But you—you are not a fool, or anything approaching it. I don't care what you have done in our affairs—for me, whatever it is, it is right. I'll tell you something more. I am certain that if my daddy wins through it will be your doing."
Gordon had nothing to say. He was dumbfounded. Hazel, in her generosity, was the woman he had always dreamed of since that first day he had seen her, which seemed so far back and long ago. He had nothing to say, because there was just one thought in his mind, and that thought was, then and there to take her in his arms and release her for no man, not even her——
Hazel was pointing along the trail.
"Why, there is my daddy coming along—on foot. I've never—known him to walk a prairie trail ever before, I wonder what's ailing him."
And then Gordon had to laugh.
They were back in the office. By every conceivable process Silas Mallinsbee had sought to discover what had happened. But Hazel would tell him nothing, and Gordon followed her lead.
The old man was disturbed. He was on the verge of anger with both of them. Then Hazel lifted the safety valve as she remounted her mare, preparatory to a hasty retreat homewards.
"I'll get back to home, Daddy," she said, in a tone lacking all her usual enthusiasm. "Mr. Van Henslaer has a lot to tell you about things, and when I am not here he'll be able to tell you all that happened—out there."
Gordon again took his cue.
"Yes, I've a heap to tell you," he said, without any display of enjoyment.
The men passed into the office as Hazel took her departure. Her farewell wave of the hand and its accompanying smile for once were not for her father. Even in the midst of his mixed feelings that obvious farewell to Gordon made the old rancher feel a breath of the winter he had once spoken of, nipping the rims of his ears.
And his mind settled upon the thought of banking the furnaces with—coal.
He took his seat in the big chair he always used and lit a cigar. Gordon went at once to his desk and sat down. He leaned forward with hands clasped, and looked squarely into the strong face before him.
"It's bad talk," he said briefly.
"So I guessed."
Then, after a few moments of silence, Gordon recounted the story of the events of the afternoon right up to Mallinsbee's arrival at the office.
The rancher listened without comment, but with obvious impatience. This was not what he wanted to hear first. But Gordon had his own way of doing things.
"You see, I took a big chance on the spur of the moment," he finished up. "I just didn't dare to think. The idea took right hold of me. And even now, when I tell it you in cold blood, I seem to feel it was one of those inspirations that don't need to be passed by. In the ordinary way I believe it would succeed. Slosson would have been driven into our plans. But—but now there's worse to come."
"So I guessed."
Mallinsbee's answer was sharp and dry.
"And it's the most important of your talk," he added a moment later. "What happened—out there?"
Gordon's eyes took on a far-away expression as he gazed out of the window.
"I nearly killed David Slosson," he said simply. Then he added, "I knew I'd have to do it before I'd finished."
His gaze came back to Mallinsbee's face. A fierce anger had made his blue eyes stern and cold. Then he told the rancher of his finding Hazel struggling furiously in the man's arms, and of her piteous cry for help, and all that followed.
While he was still talking the girl's father had leaped from his seat and began pacing the little room like a caged wild beast. His cigar was forgotten, and every now and then he paused abruptly as Gordon made some definite point. His eyes were darkly furious, his nostrils quivered, his great hands clenched at his sides, and in the end, when the story was told, he stood towering before the desk with a pair of murderous eyes shining down upon the younger man.
"God in heaven!" he cried furiously; "and he's still alive?"
Then he turned away abruptly. A revolver-belt was hanging on the wall, and he moved towards it. But Gordon was on his feet in a moment.
"That gun's mine, and—you can't have it!"
Gordon was standing in front of the weapon, facing the furious eyes of the father.
"Stand aside! I'm—going to kill him—now."
But Gordon made no movement.
"No," he said, with a stony calmness.
It was a painful moment. It was a moment full of threat and intense crisis. One false move on Gordon's part, and the maddened father's fury would be turned on him.
The younger man forced a smile to his eyes.
"You once said I could scrap, Mr. Mallinsbee. I promise you I scrapped as I never did before. That man hasn't one whole feature in his face, and if the hangman's rope had been drawn tight around his neck it couldn't have done very much more damage than my fingers did. I tell you he's has his med'cine good and plenty. There's no need for more—that way. But we're going to hurt him. We're going to hurt him more by outing him from this deal of ours than ever by killing him. We're going to stand at nothing now to—'out' him. Let's get our minds fixed that way. If one plan don't succeed—another must."
Standing there eye to eye Gordon won his way. He saw with satisfaction the fire in the old man's eyes slowly die down. Then he watched him reluctantly return to his chair.
It was not until the rancher had struck a match and relit his cigar that Gordon ventured to return to his desk.
"You're right, boy," Mallinsbee said at last. "You're right—and you've done right. If the whole scheme busts we—can't help it. But—but we'll out that—cur."
The hall porter at the Carbhoy Building was perturbed. He was more than perturbed. He was ruffled out of his blatant superiority and dignity, and reduced to a condition when he could not state, with any degree of accuracy, whether the Statue of Liberty was a symbol of Freedom or a mere piece of cheap decoration for New York Harbor.
The precincts of the beautiful colored marble entrance hall over which he presided had been invaded, against all rules, by a woman who obviously had no business there. Moreover, he had been powerless to stay the invasion. Also he had been forced to submit out of a sheer sense of politeness to the sex, a politeness it was not his habit to display even towards his wife. Furthermore, like the veriest underling, instead of the autocrat he really was, he had been ordered—ordered—to announce the lady's arrival to Mr. James Carbhoy, and forthwith conduct her to that holy of holies, which no other female, except the cleaner, had ever been permitted to enter. It was Mrs. James Carbhoy who had caused the deplorable upheaval.
But Mrs. James Carbhoy was in no mood to parley with any hall porter, however gorgeous his livery. She was in no mood to parley even with her husband. She was disturbed out of her customary condition of passive acquiescence. She was heartbroken, too, and ready to weep against any manly chest with which her head came into contact. It is doubtful, even, if a Fifth Avenue policeman's chest would have been safe from her attentions in that direction. And surely distress must certainly be overwhelming that would not shrink from such support.
James Carbhoy detected the signs the moment his door was opened, and his wife tripped over the fringe of the splendid Turkey carpet and precipitated herself into the great morocco arm-chair nearest to her, waving a bunch of letter-paper violently in his direction.
"I've been to the Inquiry Bureau, and had a man detailed right away to go and find the boy," she burst out at once. Then all her mother's anxiety merged into an attack upon the man who silently rose from his desk and closed the door she had left open. "I don't know what to say to you, James," she went on. "I can't just think why I'm sitting right here in the presence of such a monster. Here you've driven our boy from the house. Maybe you've driven him to his death, or even worse, and I can't even get you to make an attempt to discover if he's alive or—or dead. This letter came this morning," she went on, holding the pages aloft, lest he should escape their reproach. "And if he hasn't gone and married some hussy there, out in some uncivilized region, I don't know a thing. S'pose he's married a half-breed or—or a squaw," she cried, her eyes rolling in horror at the bare idea. "It—it'll be your fault—your doing. You're just a cruel monster, and if it wasn't for our Gracie's sake I'd—I'd get a divorce. You—you ought to be ashamed, James Carbhoy. You ought—ought to be in—in prison, instead of sitting there grinning like some fool image."
The millionaire leaned back in his chair wearily.
"Oh, read the letter, Mary. You make me tired."
"Tired? Letter, you call it," cried the excited woman. "I tell you it's—it's a lot of gibberish that no sane son of ours ever wrote. Oh! you're as bad as those men at the bureau. I made them read it, and—and they said he was a—bright boy. Bright, indeed! You listen to this and you can judge for yourself—if you've any sense at all."
"DEAREST MUM:
"I haven't written you in weeks, which should tell you that I am quite up to the average in my sense of filial duty. It should also tell you that IhopeI am prospering both in health and in worldly matters. I say 'hope' because nothing much seems certain in this world except the perfidy of human nature. It has been said that disappointment is responsible for all the hope in the world, but I'd like to say right here that that's just a sort of weak play on words which don't do justice to the meanest intelligence. I am full of hope and haven't yet been disappointed. Not even in my conviction that human nature has some good points, but bad points predominate, which makes you feel you'd, generally speaking, like to kick it plenty.
"While I'm on the subject of human nature it would be wrong not to discriminate between male and female human nature. Male can be dismissed under one plain heading: 'Self'—a heading which embraces every unpleasant feature in life, from extreme moral rectitude, with its various branches of self-complacency, down to chewing tobacco, to me a symbol of all that is criminally filthy in life. Female human nature comes under a similar heading, only, in a woman's case, 'Self' is a combination of the two personalities, male and female. You see, 'Self,' in female human nature, is not a complete proposition in itself. Before it becomes complete there must be a man in the case, even if he be a disgrace to his sex. I will explain. You couldn't entertain any feeling or purpose without the old Dad coming into your focus. But with man it's different. The only reason a woman comes into his life at all is so that he can kick her out of it if she don't do just as he says and wants. I guess this sounds better to me writing from here than maybe it will to you in your parlor in New York. But it's easier to say things when you feel yourself shorn of the artificialities of life.
"This is merely preliminary, leading up to two pieces of news I have to hand to you. The first is, I have discovered that woman is the greatest proposition inspired by a creative Providence for the delight of man, but in business, unless specially trained, she's liable to fall even below the surface scum which includes the lesser grade of biped called 'man.' The second is that man, generally, is a pretty disgusting brute, and I allow he deserves all he gets in life, even to lynching. Understand I am speaking generally, as a looker-on, whose eyes are no longer blinded by the glamour of wealth in a big city and the comforts of a luxurious home.
"I feel I've got to say right here that to me, apart from the foregoing observations, woman is just the most wonderful thing in all this wonderful world. Her perfections and graces are just sublime; her understanding of man is so sympathetic that it don't seem to me she'd need more than two guesses to locate how many dollars he'd got in his pocket or the quality of the brain oozing out under his hat.
"I guess her eyes are just the dandiest things ever. Furthermore, when they happen to be hazel, they got a knack of boring holes right through you, and chasing around and finding the smallest spark of decency that may happen to be lying hidden in the general muck of a man's moral makeup. They do more than that. I'd say there never was a man in this world who, under such circumstances, happens to become aware of some such spark, but wants to start right in and fan it into a big bonfire to burn up the refuse under which it's been so long secreted. That's how he's bound to feel—anyway, at first.
"A woman's just every sort of thing a man needs around him. It don't seem a matter for worry if the sun-spots became a complete rash and its old light went out altogether. That feller would still see those wonderful eyes shining out of the darkness, giving him all the light he needed in which to play foolish and think himself all sorts of a man.
"Guess when he'd worked overtime that way and sleep set him dreaming he'd make pictures he couldn't paint in a year. There'd be every sort of peaceful delight in 'em. There'd be lambs, and children without clothes, and birds and flowers. And the lambs would bleat, and the children sing, and the birds flutter, and the flowers smell, and all the world would be full of joy. Then he'd wake up. Maybe it would be different then. You see, a man awake figures his woman needs to look like the statue of Venus, be bursting with the virtues of a first-class saint, and possess the economical inspiration of a Chinee cook.
"In pursuance of these discoveries of mine I feel that maybe I've got a wrong focus of our Gracie. Maybe when she gets sense, and sort of finds herself floating around in the divine beauties of womanhood, some escaped crank may chase along and figure she possesses some of the wonderful charms I've been talking about. Personally I wish our Gracie well, and am hoping for the best. Still, I feel whatever trouble she has getting a husband I don't guess it'll end there—the trouble, I mean.
"To come to my second discovery, it has afforded me some pleasant moments, as well as considerable disgust and anger. It may seem difficult to associate these emotions without confusion. But were you to fully understand the situation you would realize that they could be associated in one harmonious whole. With anger coming first, you find yourself in a frenzied state of elation, capable of achieving anything, from murder down to robbing the dead. It is a splendid feeling, and saves one from the rust of good-natured ineptitude. Then come the pleasant moments, which may find themselves in extreme exertion and the general exercise of muscles, and even, in some cases—brains. Disgust is the necessary mental attitude under reaction. This is how my discovery affected me. But I fancy the object through which I made my second discovery was probably affected otherwise. I can't just say offhand. Maybe I'll learn later, and be able to tell you.
"There is not a day passes but what I make discoveries of a more or less interesting nature. For instance, I've learned that there's nothing like three people hating one person to make for a bond of friendship between them. I'd say it's far more binding than marriage vows at the altar. This comes under the heading of 'more' interesting. Under the 'less' comes such things as—the only time that impulsive action justifies itself is when you're sure of winning out. I have given myself two examples of impulsive action only to-day. The one in which I have won out seems to have ruined the chances of the other. This is a confusion that doesn't seem to justify anything. Still, a philosopher might be able to disentangle it.
"I should be glad if you would give the old Dad my best love, and tell him that the figures representing one hundred thousand dollars grow in size with the advancing weeks. Nor can I tell how big they will appear by the end of six months. If they grow in my view at the present rate, by the end of six months it seems to me I'll need to walk around looking through the wrong end of a telescope so as to get a place for my feet anywhere on this continent. However, as 'disappointment' has not yet appeared to create 'hope,' it is obvious that 'conviction' remains.
"I regret that time does not permit me to write more, so I will close. Any further news I have to give you I will embody in another letter.
"Your loving son,"GORDON.
"P.S.—I have been thinking a great deal about Gracie lately, she being of the female sex. Of course, I could not compare her with a real woman, but I feel, with a little judicious broadening of her mind, say by travel or setting her out to earn her living, she might develop in the right direction. It is a thought worth pondering. Such a process might even have good results.
"G."
Mrs. James Carbhoy's angry and disgusted eyes were raised from her reading to confront her husband's amused smile.
"Well?" she demanded. "Is it sunstroke, or—or——?"
"That inquiry agent was a smart feller," the millionaire interrupted. "Gordon surely is a—bright boy."
Mrs. Carbhoy's indignation leaped. And with its leap came another. She fairly bounced out of the chair she had occupied and hurled herself at the mahogany door of the office.
"James Carbhoy, I shall see to this matter myself. I always knew you were merely a money machine. Now I know you have neither heart nor sense."
She flung open the door. Again she tripped over the fringe of the carpet, and, with a smothered ejaculation, flew headlong in the direction of the hall porter's stately presence.
There come days in a man's life which are not easily forgotten. Some poignant incident indelibly fixes them upon memory, and they become landmarks in his career. The next day became one of such in Gordon's life.
It was just a little extraordinary, too, that memory should have selected this particular day in preference to the preceding one. The first of the two should undoubtedly have been the more significant, for it partook of a nature which appealed directly to those innermost hopes and yearnings of a youthful heart. Surely, before all things in life, Nature claims to itself the passionate yearning of the sexes as paramount. Gordon had fought for the woman he loved, and basked in her smiles of approval at his victory. Was not this sufficient to make it a day of days? The psychological fact remained, the indelible memory of the next day was planted on the mysterious photographic plates of his mental camera in preference.
It was a day of wild excitement. It was a day of hopes raised to a fevered pitch, and then hurled headlong to a bottomless abyss of despair. It was a day of passionate feeling and bitter memories. A day of hopeless looking forward and of depression. Then, as a last and final twist of the whirligig of emotion, it resolved itself into one great burst of enthusiasm and hope.
It started in at the earliest hour. Hip-Lee was preparing breakfast, and Gordon was still dressing. A note was brought from Peter McSwain. Gordon opened it, and the first emotions of an eventful day began to take definite shape.
The note informed him that McSwain had been faithful to his promise. He, assisted by Mike Callahan of the livery barn, had worked strenuously. The results had been splendid amongst all the principal landholders in Snake's Fall and Buffalo Point. Prices this morning were "skied" prohibitively.
The holders saw their advantage. Even if the railroad bought in Snake's Fall they would be "on velvet." They agreed that it was the first sound move made. They agreed that it was good to "jolly" a railroad. The men who did not hold in Buffalo only held insignificant property in Snake's Fall, which would be useless to the railroad. But should the railroad buy there, even these would be benefited.
Gordon began to feel that palpitating excitement in the stomach indicative of a disturbed nervous system. Things were stirring. He examined the situation from the view point of yesterday's encounter. With these people working in with him, the future certainty began to look brighter than when he had retired to bed over-night.
Mallinsbee came along after breakfast, and Gordon showed him McSwain's message.
The rancher read it over twice. Then his opinion came in deep, rumbling notes.
"That's sure what you needed," he said, with a shrewd, twinkling smile. "But I don't guess the shoutin's begun."
"No?"
Gordon eyed him uneasily. He had felt rather pleased.
"We can't shout till Slosson talks," the rancher went on. "That talk of Peter's is still only our side of the play."
"Yes."
Gordon was at his desk.
Then a diversion was created by the advent of a fat stranger with a large expanse of highly colored waistcoat, and a watchguard to match.
He wanted to talk "sites," and spent half an hour doing so. When he had gone Mallinsbee offered an explanation which had passed Gordon's inexperience by.
"That feller's worried," he observed. "He's got wind there's something doing, and is scared to death the speculators are to be shut out. He's going back to report to the boys. Maybe we'll hear from Peter again—later. I wonder what Slosson's thinking?"
Gordon smiled.
"I doubt if he can think yet," he said. "I allow he was upset yesterday. I'd give a dollar to see him when he starts to try and buy."
"You're feeling sure."
Mallinsbee's doubt was pretty evident.
"Sure? I'm sure of nothing about Slosson except his particular dislike of me, and, through me, of you."
"Just so. And when a man hates the way he hates you, if he's bright he'll try to make things hum."
"He's bright all right," allowed Gordon.
A further diversion was created. Two men arrived in a buckboard, and Mallinsbee's explanation was verified. They were looking for information. It was said the railroad was to boycott Buffalo Point. It was said, even, that they had bought in Snake's Fall. Was this so? And, anyway, what was the meaning of the rise in prices at that end?
"Why, say," finished up one of the men, "when I was talking to Mason, the dry goods man, this morning, he told me there wasn't a speculator around who'd money enough to buy his spare holdings in Snake's. And when I asked him the figger he said he needed ten thousand dollars for two side street plots and twenty thousand for two avenue fronts. He's crazy, sure."
Mallinsbee shook his head.
"Not crazy. Just bright."
When the man had departed, and Mallinsbee had removed the patch from his eye, he smiled over at Gordon.
"Peter's surely done his work," he said.
Gordon warmed with enthusiasm. If those were the prices ruling Mr. Slosson would have no option but to be squeezed between the two interests. Whatever his personal feelings, he must make good with his company. No agent, unless he were quite crazy, would dare face such prices for his principals.
"I don't see that Slosson's a leg to stand on," he cried, his enthusiasm bubbling. "We've just got to sit around and wait."
Mallinsbee agreed.
"Sure. Sit around and wait," he said, with that baffling smile of his.
Gordon shrugged, and bent over some figures he had been working on. Presently he looked up.
"How's Miss Hazel this morning?" he inquired casually. He had wanted to speak of her before, but the memory of her father's anger yesterday had restrained him. Now he felt he was safe.
"Just sore over things," said the old man, with a sobering of the eyes. "I talked to her some last night. She guesses she owes you a heap, but it ain't nothing to what I owe you."
Gordon flushed. Then he laughed and shook his head.
"No man or woman owes me a thing who gives me the chance of a scrap," he said.
The old man smiled.
"No," he agreed. "With a name like 'Van Henslaer'—you ain't Irish?"
"Descendant of the old early Dutch."
"Ah. They were scrappers, too."
Gordon nodded and went on with his figures. So the morning passed. It was a waiting for developments which both men knew would not long be delayed. Mallinsbee was unemotional, but Gordon was all on wires drawn to great tension. The subtle warnings from Mallinsbee not to be too optimistic had left him in a state of doubt. And an impatience took hold of him which he found hard to restrain.
The two men shared their midday meal. Mallinsbee wanted to get back to the ranch, but neither felt such a course to be policy yet. Besides, now that the crisis had arrived, Gordon was anxious to have his superior's approval for his next move. He had taken a chance yesterday. Now he wanted to make no mistake.
Thedénouementcame within half an hour of Hip-Lee's clearing of the table. It came with the sound of galloping hoofs, with the rush of a horseman up to the veranda.
The two men inside the office looked at each other, and Gordon rose and dashed at the window.
"It's McSwain," he said, and returned to the haven of his seat behind his desk. His announcement had been cool enough, but his heart was hammering against his ribs.
"Then I guess things are going queer," said the rancher pessimistically.
Gordon was about to reply when the door was abruptly thrust open, and the hot face and hotter eyes of Peter appeared in the doorway.
"Well?"
For the life of him Gordon could not have withheld that sharp, nervous inquiry.
McSwain came right into the room and drew the door closed after him. Quite suddenly his eyes began to smile in that fashion which so expresses chagrin. He flung his hat on Gordon's desk and sat himself on the corner of it. Then he deliberately drew a long breath.
"I'm as worried as a cat goin' to have kittens," he said. "That feller Slosson's beat us. Maybe he's stark, starin' crazy, maybe he ain't. Anyways he came right along to me this morning with a face like chewed up dogs' meat, with a limp on him that 'ud ha' made the fortune of a tramp, and a mitt all doped up with a dry goods store o' cotton-batten, and asked me the price of my holdings in Snake's. I guessed I wasn't selling my hotel lot, but I'd two Main Street frontages that were worth ten thousand dollars each, and a few other bits going at the waste ground price of five thousand each."
"Well?"
This time it was Mallinsbee's inquiry.
"He closed the deal for his company, and planted the deposit."
"He closed the deal?" cried Gordon thickly, all his dreams of the future tumbling about his ears.
"Why, yes." McSwain regarded the younger man's hopelessly staring eyes for one brief moment. Then he went on: "I was only the first. This was after dinner. Say, in half an hour he's put his company in at Snake's to the tune of nearly a quarter million dollars. He's mad. They'll fire him. They'll repudiate the whole outfit. I tell you he never squealed at any old price. He's beat our play here. But how do we stand up there? A crazy man comes along and makes deals which no corporation in the world would stand for. There ain't a site in Snake's worth more'n a hundred dollars to a railroad who's got to boom a place. Well, if his corporation turns him down, how do we stand? Are they goin' to pay? No, sir; not on your life."
"They'll have to stand it," said Mallinsbee.
"They'll try and fight it," retorted Peter hotly.
"And you can't graft the courts like a railroad can," put in Gordon quickly.
"They'll have to stand it," repeated Mallinsbee doggedly. "An' I'll tell you how. Maybe Slosson's crazy. Maybe he's crazy to beat us, an' I allow he's not without reason for doin' it—now. But it would cost the railroad a big pile to shift that depot here. It would have been better for them in the end. You see, they'd have got their holdings in the township here for pretty well nix, and so they wouldn't have felt the cost of the depot. The city would have paid that, as well as other old profits. Anyway, the capital would have had to be laid out. In Snake's they are laying out capital in their holdings only. They'll get it back all right, all right—and profits. Slosson's relying on making up their leeway for them in the boom. He's takin' that chance, because he's crazy to beat—us."
"And he's done it," said Gordon sharply.
"Yep. He's done it," muttered McSwain regretfully.
"He surely has," agreed Mallinsbee, without emotion.
Gordon was the only one of the trio who appeared to be depressed. McSwain had the consolation of getting his profit in Snake's Fall. The only sense in which he was a loser was that his holdings in Buffalo Point were larger than in the other place. Therefore he was able to regard the matter more calmly, in the light of the fortunes of war. Mallinsbee, who had staked all his hopes on Buffalo Point, seemed utterly unaffected.
A few minutes later McSwain hurried away for the purpose of watching further developments, promising to return in the evening and report. Neither he nor Gordon felt that there was the least hope whatever. Mallinsbee offered no opinion.
When Peter had ridden off, and the two men were left alone, Gordon, weighed down with his failure, began to give expression to his feelings.
He looked over at the strong face of his benefactor, and took his courage in both hands.
"Mr. Mallinsbee," he said diffidently, "I want to tell you something of what I feel at the way things have gone through—my failure. I——"
Mallinsbee had thrust his fingers into his waistcoat pocket, and now drew forth a cigar.
"Say, have a smoke, boy," he said, in his blunt, kindly fashion. "That's a dollar an' a half smoke," he went on, "an' I brought two of 'em over from the ranch to celebrate on. Guess we best celebrate right now."
It was a doleful smile which looked back at the rancher as Gordon accepted the proffered cigar.
"But I——"
"Say, don't bite the end off," interrupted Mallinsbee. "Here's a piercer."
"Thanks. But you must let——"
"I'll be mighty glad to have a light," the other went on hastily.
Gordon was thus forced to silence, and Mallinsbee continued.
"Say, boy," he said, as he settled himself comfortably to enjoy his expensive cigar, "a business life is just the only thing better than ranching, I'm beginning to guess. You got to figure on things this way: ranching you got so many hands around, so much grazin', so many cattle. Your only enemy is disease. So many head of cows will produce so many calves, and Nature does the rest. That's ranching in a kind of outline which sort of reduces it to a question of figures which it wouldn't need a trick reckoner to work out. Now business is diff'rent. Ther's always the other feller, and you 'most always feel he's brighter than you. But he ain't. He's just figurin' the same way at his end of the deal. So, you see, the real principles of commerce aren't dependent on the things you got and Nature, same as ranching. Your assets ain't worth the paper they're written on—till you've got your man where you want him. Now, to do that you got to ferget you ever were born honest. You've just got one object in life, and that is to get the other feller where you want him. It don't matter how you do it, short of murder. If you succeed, folks'll shout an' say what a bright boy you are. If you fail they'll say you're a mutt. The whole thing's a play there ain't no rules to except those the p'lice handle, and even they don't count when your assets are plenty. You'll hear folks shouting at revival meetings, an' psalm-smitin' around their city churches. You'll hear them brag honesty an' righteousness till you feel you're a worse sinner than ever was found in the Bible. You'll have 'em come an' look you in the eye and swear to truth, and every other old play invented to allay suspicions. And all the time it's a great big bluff for them to get you wheretheywant you. An' that's why the game's worth playing—even when you're beat. If business was dead straight; if you could stake your all on a man's word; if ther' weren't a man who would take graft; if you didn't know the other feller was yearning to handle your wad—why, the game wouldn't be a circumstance to ranching."
"That sounds pretty cynical," protested Gordon. He, too, was smoking, but the failure of his scheme left him unsmiling.
"It's the truth. We were trying to get Slosson where we wanted him. He's doing the same by us. So far he seems to monopolize most of the advantage. The question remaining to us now—and it's the only one of interest from our end of the line—is: Will the President of the Union Grayling and Ukataw Railroad do as I think he will—back his agent's play? Will he stand for his crazy buying? Will he fall for Slosson's game to get us where he wants us? I believe he will, but we can't be dead certain. Our only chance is to try and make it so he won't—even if the Snake's boys lose their stuff up there."
Gordon was sitting up. His cigar was removed from the corner of his mouth and held poised over an ash-tray. There was a sharp look of inquiry in his eyes.
"What's the President of the Union Grayling and Ukataw Railroad got to do with it?" he demanded quickly.
The rancher raised his heavy brows.
"This is a branch of his road, I guess."
"A—a branch?" Gordon's breath was coming rapidly.
"Sure. You see, it's a branch linking up with the Southern Trunk route. It runs into the Grayling line where it enters the Rockies. That's how you make the coast this way."
"And this—is part of the Union Grayling system?" Gordon persisted, his blue eyes getting bigger and bigger with excitement.
"Sure," nodded Mallinsbee, watching him closely.
Then the explosion came. Gordon could contain himself no longer. He flung his newly lit dollar-and-a-half cigar on the floor with all the force of pent feelings and leaped to his feet.
"Great Scott!" he cried. "The President of that road is my father!"
"Eh?" Then, without another sign, Mallinsbee pointed reproachfully at the fallen cigar. "It cost a dollar an' a ha'f, boy."
But Gordon was beside himself with excitement. A great flash of light and hope was shining through his recent mental darkness. It didn't matter to him at that moment if the cigar had cost a thousand dollars.
"But—but don't you understand?" he almost yelled. "The President of the Union Grayling and Ukataw is my—father."
"James Carbhoy."
"Yes, yes. My name's Gordon Van Henslaer Carbhoy."
Then quite suddenly Gordon sat down and began to laugh. Then he stooped and picked up his cigar. He was still laughing, while he carefully wiped the dust from the cigar's moistened end.
"James Carbhoy's your—father?"
Mallinsbee was no longer disturbed at the waste of the cigar. All his attention was fixed on that laughing face in front of him.
Gordon nodded delightedly, while he once more thrust his cigar into the corner of his mouth.
"You're thinkin' something?"
Mallinsbee was becoming infected by the other's manner.
"Sure I am." Gordon nodded. "I'm thinking a heap. Say, the fight has shifted its battle-ground. It's only just going to begin. Gee, if I'd only thought of it before! The Union Grayling and Ukataw! It's fate. Say, it isn't Slosson any longer. It's son and father. I've got to scrap the old dad. Gee! It's colossal. Say, can you beat it? I've got to make my little pile out of my old dad. And—he sent me out to make it and show him what I could do."
"But how? I don't just see——"
"How? How?"
Gordon's laughing eyes sobered. He suddenly realized that he had only considered the humorous side of the position. His brain began to work at express speed. How was he to turn this thing to account? How? Yes—how?
Mallinsbee watched him for many silent minutes. And during those minutes scheme after scheme, each one more wild than its predecessor, flashed through Gordon's brain. None of them suggested any sane possibility. He knew he was up against one of the most brilliant financiers of the country, who, in a matter like this, would regard his own son simply as "the other feller." He must trick him. But how? How?
For a long time, in spite of his excited delight, Gordon saw no glamour of a hope of dealing successfully with his father. Then all in a flash he remembered something. He remembered he still had his father's private code book with him. He remembered Slosson. If Slosson could only be—silenced.
In a moment he was on his feet again.
"I've got it!" he cried exultantly. "I've got it, Mr. Mallinsbee! You said that it didn't matter, short of murder, how we got the other feller where we needed him. Will you come in on the wildest, most crazy scheme you ever heard of? We can beat the game, and we'll take money for nothing. We can make my dad build the depot right here and scrap Snake's Fall. We can make him—and without any murder. Will you come in?"
"In what?" demanded a girlish voice from the veranda doorway.
Gordon swung round, and Mallinsbee turned his smiling, twinkling eyes upon his daughter, who had arrived all unnoticed.
"It's a scheme he's got to beat his father, gal," laughed Mallinsbee in a deep-throated chuckle.
"His father?" Hazel turned her smiling, inquiring eyes upon the man who had rescued her yesterday.
"Yes, James Carbhoy," said her father, "the President of this railroad."
Hazel's eyes widened, and their smile died out.
"Your father—the—millionaire—James Carbhoy?" she said. And her note of regret must have been plain to anybody less excited than Gordon.
But Gordon was beyond all observation of such subtle inflections. He was obsessed with his wild scheme. He started forward. Walking past Hazel, he closed and locked the door. Then with alert eyes he glanced at the window. It was open. He shut it and secured it. Then he set a chair for Hazel close beside her father, and finally brought his own chair round and sat himself down facing them.
"Listen to me, and I'll tell you," he grinned, his whole body throbbing with a joyous humor. "We're going to get the other feller where we need him, and that other feller is my—dear—old—Dad!"