232
Jim shook his head again.
“They were your own horses;––where did you get them?”
Jim’s shock of auburn hair waggled a negative.
“And that’s what the booze is doing for you, old man. You won’t know your own name pretty soon.”
Suddenly Phil’s voice changed and he slipped his arm across his friend’s shoulder.
“Jim,––Jim,––we’ve been good pals. Won’t you quit this crazy behaviour, and we’ll stay good pals right to the finish?”
“When do you want me to start?” asked Jim quietly.
Phil’s face lit up.
“Right now!”
“Give me to-night;––two or three hours more, and don’t interfere with me between this and then,––and I’ll take you on.”
“It’s a go!” exclaimed Phil, holding out his hand.
Jim gripped it, and Phil knew that Jim would keep his word, for he was the kind of man whose word, drunk or sober, was as good as the deed accomplished.
“Mind you, Phil,––I don’t say I’ll never drink again.”
“I’m not asking you to promise that,” answered Phil.
“Right! At nine o’clock to-night I’m through with the long-term Highland Fling for keeps.”
Phil assented to the proposal and left Jim to complete his potato distribution.
But Jim could not have remained very long with the job, for, by the time Phil had taken a leisurely stroll round to the forge to have a few words with Sol Hanson, and had partaken of a bit of supper with Betty and the big, genial Swede, Jim had succeeded in putting up his delivery-outfit, had dressed himself out in his cowboy trappings; chaps, Stetson, khaki shirt, red tie, belts, spurs233and all complete, and was creating a furore among the law-abiding citizens down town.
Phil came upon the scene––or rather, the scene came upon Phil––like a flash of lightning out of the heavens.
He was making down town, intent on spending half an hour with his pipe and the evening paper in a secluded corner of the Kenora Hotel, when he heard a shout and witnessed a scurrying of people into the middle of the road. Phil himself had hardly time to get out of the way of a mad horseman who was urging his horse and yelling like an Indian on the war-path; tearing along the sidewalk in a headlong gallop, striking at every overhanging signboard with the handle of his quirt and sending these swinging and creaking precariously––oblivious of everybody and everything but the crazy intent in speed and noise that seemed to possess him so fully.
“How long has he been at this?” Phil asked of an old, toothless bystander.
“Oh,––’bout half an hour, maybe more, maybe not quite so much,” came the reply.
“Nobody been hurt?” he inquired further.
“Guess nit! That Langford faller’s all right. On the loose again, and just a-lettin’ off steam. A good holler and a good tear on a cayuse ain’t goin’ to hurt nobody nohow, ’cept them what ain’t got no call to go and be interferin’.”
With difficulty Phil extricated himself from the man’s superfluity of negatives and continued on his way.
He passed through the saloon of the Kenora, which was already overflowing with the usual mob such places attract in any Western country town; ranchers, cowpunchers, real-estate touts, railway construction men, horse dealers, teamsters and several of Vernock’s sporty storekeepers and clerks.
He seated himself in a lounge chair in one of the side234rooms, lit his pipe and pulled out the previous day’s Coast newspaper. He was tired from his all day’s running around after Jim. It was a raw evening out-of-doors, but it was cosy in there. The popping of corks, the clinking of glasses, the hum of voices and the occasional burst of ribald laughter, even the quarrelsome argument; all had more or less a soothing effect, which began to make Phil feel at harmony with the world at large. He looked at his watch. It was eight o’clock. He stretched his legs, unfolded the large sheet and settled down comfortably.
He did not get very far. He had only scanned the headlines and had read the chief editorial, when the sound of an old, familiar voice in the saloon attracted his attention. He looked up.
It was DeRue Hannington, immaculate as usual, but terribly excited and mentally worked-up.
This same Percival DeRue Hannington had now become an established fact in Vernock. While he was looked upon as more or less of a fool in regard to money matters––with more money than brains––he had that trait about him which many well-bred Englishmen possess; he always commanded a certain amount of respect, and he declined to tolerate anything verging on loose familiarity.
“Say!” he was drawling, as he strode the saw-dusted floor, whacking his leggings with his riding crop, “what would you Johnnies do with a rotter that grossly maltreated your horse?”
“Stand him a drink,” came a voice.
“Lynch him,” suggested another.
“Push his daylights in!”
“Dip him in the lake!”
“Invite him up home and treat him to a boiled egg!”
“Forget it!”
235
Various were the suggestions thrown out, gratis, to DeRue Hannington’s query, for all of them knew that he was crazy over horseflesh in general and particularly over the pure white thoroughbred he had got from Rattlesnake Dalton the day he closed the deal and became owner of the good-for-nothing Lost Durkin Gold Mine.
Whether or not DeRue Hannington considered that he had been defrauded in the matter of the mine still remained for him to test out, but the white horse was certainly a beauty, and her owner was never so happy as when careering down Main Street or over the ranges astride of her.
“By gad!––lynching is not half severe enough,” fumed the Englishman. “You chaps are all jolly fond of horses. That is why I dropped in. It is an out and out beastly shame. The scoundrel should be horse-whipped and run out of town.”
“Say, sonny!––why don’t you tell us what’n-the-hell’s the matter with your blinkin’ hoss, ’stead o’ jumpin’ up and down like a chimpanzee, and makin’ us dizzy watchin’ yer?” asked a hardened old bar-lounger. “Stand still and let me lean my eyes up against somethin’ steady for a minute.”
This brought DeRue Hannington to himself.
“Come out here, gentlemen, and see for yourselves!” he invited. “Everybody come and have a look. I have her outside. A beastly, dirty, rotten shame;––that’s what I call it, and if there is any bally justice in this Valley, I am going to see it jolly-well performed; by George, I am!”
The idly curious crowd gathered to the doorway after Hannington. In a few seconds thereafter, the wildest shouts of laughter and a medley of caustic remarks caused Phil to get up to see what it all was about.
At the door, he looked over the heads of those on the236lower steps of the veranda, and there on the sidewalk stood the dejected Hannington holding the bridle of what might have been a huge zebra gone wild on the colour scheme, or an advertisement for a barber’s shop.
It was evidently DeRue Hannington’s white thoroughbred, but white no longer. Phil went out to make a closer inspection.
What a sight she presented! She had been painted from head to hoofs in broad stripes of red, white and blue. The white was her own natural colour, but the red and blue were a gaudy, cheap paint still partly wet. Nevertheless, the work was the work of an artist. The body was done in graceful, sweeping lines, while the legs were circled red, white and blue alternately down to each hoof. Even the animal’s head was emblazoned in the most fantastic manner.
Phil laughed uproariously. He could not help it. None could––excepting possibly the man who owned the horse. To look at the animal gave one a sensation of dizziness.
The old bar-lounger, who had been so anxious to know what the trouble was about, was the first to give way under it.
“Holy mackinaw! I’ve got them again. Talk about seein’ snakes,” he cried, turning toward the saloon door and putting his hands over his eyes as if to shut out the sight, “hydrophobey, or delirious tremblin’s ain’t got nothin’ on that. Say, Heck!––mix me up a drink o’ gasoline and Condy’s Fluid, so’s I kin forgit it.”
“Only wan thing wrong wid her,” exclaimed an Irish pig-breeder from Tipperary; “she should ’a’ been painted Emerild Green.”
“Yes,––or maybe Orange,” commented his friend who hailed from Ulster.
But with Percival DeRue Hannington it was a serious237crime and he was in no mood to see any humour in the situation.
“Gentlemen,” he cried, as the crowd began to dwindle back, “I’ll give one hundred dollars cash to any one of you who can tell me who did this. My offer holds good for a week.”
At that particular moment, the offer of a bribe did not bring to the fore any informers, so DeRue Hannington, riding a spare horse and leading his favourite by a halter rope, jogged his way homeward.
He had hardly gone the length of a block, when the comparative quiet of a respectable western saloon was again broken in upon. There was a clatter of hoofs outside which came to an abrupt stoppage; a heavy scrambling on the wooden steps leading to the veranda which ran round the hotel, an encouraging shout from a familiar voice, a clearing of passageway;––and Jim Langford, in all his gay trappings, still astride his well-trained horse, was occupying the middle of the bar-room floor, bowing profusely right and left to the astonished onlookers, making elaborate sweeps with his hat.
Everyone stopped, open-mouthed.
“What’s this now!” shouted the long-suffering Charlie Mackenzie, the husky proprietor of the Kenora, as he came in from the dining-room.
“Good evening, good sir! It is Jim Langford, and very much at your service,” came the gracious reply.
“Most of the time Jim Langford is welcome––but not when he don’t know the dif’ between a bar and a stable. Hop it now, and tie your little bull outside,” was Mackenzie’s ready retort.
“Boys!” cried Jim with a laugh, “we all know Charlie. He’s a jolly good fellow, which nobody can deny;––and all that sort of thing;––but we’re thirsty.
“Hands up––both hands––who wants a drink?”
238
Half a hundred hands shot in the air.
Jim’s mood changed like a summer’s day before a thunder plump. He pulled a gun. “Keep them there or I’ll blow your heads off,” he shouted dramatically.
And every hand stayed decorously and obediently above its owner’s head.
Suddenly Jim laughed and threw his gun on the floor.
“Scared you all stiff that time! The gun’s empty––not a cartridge in it.
“Come on, fellows! This is on me. Line up and get it over.
“Buck up, Charlie! Get your gang busy. I’m paying the piper.”
Phil kept fairly well in the background, but drew closer to the lea of the others. He caught Jim’s eye once, and he fancied he detected the faintest flicker of a wink; but, otherwise, Jim’s face remained inscrutable.
Sitting easily on his horse, he pulled out a roll of bills and tossed over the cost of the treat to Mackenzie.
“Listen, fellows!” said he, leaning over in his saddle, “this is my last long bat. Next time you see me on the tear, shoot me on sight.”
He pulled out his watch.
“Five minutes to nine! Say,––you’ll have to excuse me; I’ve an appointment with a lady friend for nine o’clock.”
Someone laughed.
“What the devil are you laughing at? I said alady; and I meant it. Now, darn you,––laugh!” he taunted.
The laugh didn’t come.
“Ho, Charlie! What do your windows cost?” he asked, pointing to those fronting the main street.
“Want to buy a window?” grinned the fleshy hotel-keeper.
“Sure!”
239
“One––or the whole frame?”
“The entire works, the nine windows, frame and all!”
“Oh well!––to you, Jim, that would be fifty bucks, less ten percent for cash,” replied Mackenzie, going over to the cash register.
“Fifty dollars, less ten percent,” repeated Jim; “that’s forty-five dollars.” His voice rose gaily. “There she goes, Charlie!”
He threw forty-five dollars from his roll over the counter.
“The window’s mine! Good-bye, boys! My little lady is waiting for me.”
He swung his mare round, set his heels into her sides and, before anyone could move, the horse and its rider sprang for the window, dashed clear through it on to the roadway and away at a gallop, without so much as a stop or a stumble; leaving a shower of broken glass and splintered wood in their train.
240CHAPTER XVIIIThe Coat of Many Colours
Before going to work next morning, Phil peeped into Jim’s bedroom, and the sight proved pleasing to his eyes.
The place looked like a rocky beach after a storm and a shipwreck; boots, hat, spurs, leather straps, riding chaps, coat, pants, everything, lay in a muddle on the carpet, while Jim, the cause of all the rummage––innocent-looking as a newly born lamb, and smiling serenely in his evidently pleasant dreams––lay in bed, fast asleep.
At noon, after lunch, Phil looked in again, pushed the door wide and entered.
Jim was in his trousers and his undershirt, and was laboriously shaving himself before the mirror. He turned round and grinned. Phil grinned back at him and sat down on the edge of the bed.
There were no recriminations. What was past was dead and buried––at least as much of it as would submit to the treatment without protest.
“Jim!”
“Ugh-huh!”
“Had a good sleep?”
“Sure!”
“Just up?”
“Ay!”
“Feeling fit?”
“You bet!”
“Going to work?”
241
“Yep!––maybe.”
“Did you hear what some tom-fool did to Percival DeRue Hannington’s horse?”
Jim stopped his shaving and grimaced before the mirror, then swung slowly round on his heel.
“No!––although something inside of me seems to denote the feeling that I must have heard somebody talk about it. Give me the yarn.”
Phil did so, as briefly as possible.
“And DeRue Hannington is as mad as a caged monkey. He has this white notice placarded on every telegraph pole in town.”
Phil tossed over a hand-bill, which Jim perused slowly.
ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD.The above reward will be paid to anyone giving information that will lead to the conviction of the person, or persons, who maltreated my white mare by coating her with paint.Percival DeRue Hannington.
ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD.
The above reward will be paid to anyone giving information that will lead to the conviction of the person, or persons, who maltreated my white mare by coating her with paint.
Percival DeRue Hannington.
Jim laughed and threw the paper back to Phil.
“Well!––I should worry about a little thing like that. Man,––I’ve troubles enough of my own to contend with.”
“How’s that?” asked Phil, looking up. “You haven’t been doing anything likely to get you into hot water?”
“No––father confessor,––excepting maybe this:”
It was Jim’s turn to throw over a piece of paper which he picked up from the bureau.
Phil looked it over.
It was an Agreement for Sale, between James Shallingford Dalton and James Langford, in which the former accepted from the latter nine horses––receipt of which was thereby acknowledged––as first payment of five hundred242dollars on his Brantlock Ranch of sixty acres, with barns and shack, two dray-horses, one dray and one and a half tons of sacked potatoes; total purchase price thirty-five hundred dollars; second payment of two thousand dollars to be made within seven days, the balance in six months thereafter; prompt payment on due dates to be the essence of the agreement.
Phil glanced over at Jim, then turned up his nose in disgust.
“Gee!––and I thought you were a lawyer.”
“So did I!” returned Jim ruefully.
“But what in the name of all that’s lovely made you sign an agreement like that?”
“The Lord only knows!”
“Great snakes!––it would be all right if it weren’t for that last clause. Didn’t you read it? ‘Prompt settlement on due dates to be the essence of the agreement.’ Couldn’t you see that the property reverts to Dalton immediately you fail to make any one payment on the dates agreed?”
Jim laughed in a woe-begone way.
“Ay!––Dalton put one over on me that time, all right. But it’s the very last. Can’t stand for this happening again. It hurts, right on my professional dignity. Won’t he have the haw-haw on me?
“Ah, well! What’s done can’t be undone. ‘My deed’s upon my head.’”
“Gosh, but he’s a rotter,” growled Phil. “Put a thing like that over on a drunken man!”
“Hush! Not drunk, Phil;––call it indisposed! You know I am an æsthete on these matters.
“But wasn’t it some bait though, Phil?”
“Oh, great stuff all right! The ranch must be worth six or seven thousand dollars. But a fat chance you had of ever getting it. Why, he had you every way you243turned. All you did was to give him a present of nine horses worth five hundred dollars.”
“He’ll never get his spuds back, that’s one blessing.”
“Go to it;––be philosophic! Lovely consolation that! A ton and a half of potatoes for five hundred bucks!”
“That’s right, Shadow, dearie,––rub it in.”
Phil did not answer, but sat on Jim’s bed and looked at the carpet in evident disgust.
After a few minutes of silence, Jim grunted, then he began to laugh.
“You seem to be quite pleased with your performance,” commented Phil sarcastically.
“Man,––I was just thinkin’ what a grand thing it would be if only I could make these payments.”
“A fine chance you have––about fifty dollars in the wide world and five days left in which to make two thousand. Nobody in this town will lend you a red cent. They are all too anxious putting their money in a hole in the ground themselves. Of course, you might write forty dime novels at fifty dollars apiece and make it that way:––that means just eight a day for five days.”
Phil got up and clapped Jim on the shoulder. “Guess you’d best forget it, old boy! Let the tail follow the dog.”
“But you must admit, Phil, that the weak spot in this deal of Rattlesnake’s, after all, is right on the question of my ability to raise the dough.”
“Yes!––I admit it––but the real weak point is one he never reckoned on.”
“And what’s that, pray?”
“He knew you had just gone on one of your crazy bouts. The law of averages informed him that you would get back to your––ahem!––sober senses in about a month’s time, when the date of your second payment would be long gone by and your precious Agreement for Sale, if244ever you happened to remember it again, would be simply so much waste paper. He would throw half a dozen fits, right now, if he knew you were––ahem!––compos mentis, with five days still to go to make two thousand dollars––maybe. But I’m wasting your precious time, Jim,” he continued. “Get out your pen, and ink, and paper, and get busy;––eight dime novels of thirty thousand words apiece––two hundred and forty thousand words a day for five days! Shades of Sir Walter Scott and Balzac!”
He laughed. “I wouldn’t do it, Jim;––no, not for a farm!”
And Phil went back to the smithy as Jim continued dressing, doing a little special thinking, the while, on the side.
All that day, the mystery of who painted DeRue Hannington’s horse was the talk of the town.
Several painters and paper-hangers, as they went about their business in garments that betrayed their calling, were glared at in open suspicion. The reward of one hundred dollars read very good and a sort of hidden-treasure-hunt look was in the eyes of many.
The next day blue notices instead of white were tacked to the telegraph poles and the hoardings. With DeRue Hannington’s anger and indignation, the reward had risen in the night. It now stood at five hundred dollars.
In unison, the keenness of the hunt for the perpetrator of the so-called dastardly outrage rose four hundred per cent.
Meanwhile, Jim did not go to work at the Court House as he had practically said, nor yet did he go outside. He sat quietly in his own room, smoking his pipe and reading Emerson and Professor Drummond, which, of course, was quite in keeping with the peculiarities of his temperament. He had little to say to Phil as the latter245dropped in to see him from time to time; and the all-absorbing topic of the town––DeRue Hannington’s big reward––seemed to interest him about as much as did the approaching dissolution of his hold on the ranch he had contracted to purchase from Rattlesnake Dalton.
Phil looked in vain for signs of diligence in the direction of stories from the pen of Captain Mayne Plunkett, and articles on the affairs of the heart by Aunt Christina.
In the language of the farm, Jim was simplysawing wood.
For two days, the signs on the telegraph poles remained blue in colour.
On the evening of that second day Jim ventured only a little into conversation.
“Phil,––do you know I’m heart sick of playing the darned idiot. I’ve a good mind to start work.”
“Jee-rusalem! You don’t say!” exclaimed his astounded friend.
“Honest to goodness! Man, I wish, though, that I could beat Dalton to it on that deal.”
“I wish you could too, for he is bragging all over the town how he put one over on you, and that you’re on the loose somewhere, worse than ever, too shamefaced to show up in your own town.”
By way of answer, Jim twisted his gaunt face in an enigmatical smile.
“It’s a good ranch!” continued Phil.
“Of course it is! That is why I’d give my head to fool him on it.”
“Well!––I’ve a thousand bucks and one dollar in the Commercial Bank, and I’m willing to go halves if you can raise the balance.”
Jim started up excitedly, but he subsided almost as246quickly. He pulled out the linings of his pockets and with them came a little roll of bills.
“One hundred and sixteen dollars!” he said ruefully. “I’ve counted them one hundred and sixteen times, backwards, forwards and upside down, these last three days, and I can’t get them to grow a dollar more.”
“Won’t somebody stand good for you?”
“Somebody might,––but I am not borrowing. That is one thing Jim Langford never did in his life and he is not going to start in now with it to help him out of a tom-fool boozing stunt he never should have got into. I don’t mind your money so much, Phil, for it would be a partnership affair between two pals, but I am not crawling all over town begging for loans, especially after Dalton has had his say. No,––it’s no good!”
At noon next day, Jim was still in the doldrums.
Phil rushed in all excitement.
“What do you know about that fool Hannington? The town is ablaze with red posters now, and he is offering a thousand dollars reward, for one day only––like a bargain sale––to anyone who will lay information that will lead to the conviction of the horse painter.”
Jim laid down his book, put his pipe out by smothering it with his little finger, then got up and went to the clothes closet. He took down his hat and jacket.
“What’s up now?” asked Phil.
“I’m after that thousand, sonny!”
“What?”
“I saw Hannington’s horse painted. I know who did it and I’m going to lay information.”
Phil gaped.
As Jim was proceeding outside, Phil ran after him and laid hold on his arm.
“Wait a bit, old man! Let me get this right,” he247said slowly. “Do you mean to say you are going to play informer for a thousand dirty dollars?”
“Why not? I’m the only man who saw it done. There are mighty few in town who wouldn’t do the same thing if they knew what I know. Besides, the fellow who did it darned-well deserves all that he gets. I’ve no love for him, and I need the money. Good-bye, Philly! I’ll see you anon.”
He went downstairs, opened the front door cautiously and, finding few people about, he hurried along the block and down the back lanes to the rear ofThe Advertiserbuilding. He sneaked unseen into Ben Todd’s private office. There was no one inside. Ben, evidently, was in the basement in the printing shop.
The editor’s desk was littered as usual with newspapers, scribbled scraps of paper, cuttings, paste-pots and such paraphernalia of the making of a country newspaper.
Jim closed the door, sat down in Todd’s chair and took up the telephone receiver. He called for DeRue Hannington and got him without difficulty.
“Hullo!––is that Mr. Hannington?”
“Mr. DeRue Hannington speaking.”
“Are you busy?”
“Not too much so! Who is they-ah?”
“Could you come down toThe Advertiseroffice right away––Mr. Todd’s place––something important in regard to what you are so worked up over?”
“Why, yes,––certainly! Of course, I can come.”
“Be here in ten minutes.”
“Yes! Who is calling?”
“Never mind! Come and see, and come quick!”
And Jim rang off.
In two or three minutes Ben Todd, the editor, came in, long of legs and hunched of back, trailing his arms248like an ape, his handsome bearded face lit up in pleasantness and his keen brown eyes searching Jim curiously.
“Hello, Jim! Glad to see you! The boys must have miscued. I heard you had fallen off the water wagon.”
“And can’t a fellow climb back again as easily as he fell off?”
“Some can, but you generally take your own sweet time, my Wayward Boy. Still, I’m glad to see you. What brought you in?”
Jim swung round in the chair. “I want you to act as umpire for me in a little matter. Are you willing?”
“Of course I am! What is it?”
“Why,––here comes the other fellow,” said Jim, as the handle of the door turned and the gaudy, resplendent and immaculate Percival strutted in, bringing with him an odour of pomade and scented soap.
Ben Todd looked over in surprise.
“Aw,––good day, gentlemen! Someone ’phoned me beastly hurriedly.”
“Sit down, Mr. Hannington––Mr. DeRue Hannington,” invited Ben. “Guess you were the one who ’phoned, Jim?”
“Yes!” acknowledged Jim, becoming alert. And he wasted no time beating about.
“You wish to know the name of the man who Union-Jacked your cayuse?”
“The name of the boundah who painted my mare!––you just jolly-well bet your boots I do, sir!”
“Well,––I know it.”
“Yes––yes!”
“Does your offer of a thousand dollars still hold good?”
“Till midnight, to-night;––certainly!”
“Good! Make out a cheque now and hand it over to Mr. Todd as umpire.”
249
“Doesn’t the word of DeRue Hannington bally-well suit everyone here?” exclaimed the Englishman in a hurt tone.
“Sure!––but this is strictly business.”
Hannington pulled out his cheque book, wrote out the cheque for one thousand dollars payable to “cash” and handed it over to Ben Todd who was eyeing the scene in undisguised interest; his keen mind already fathoming the secret.
“There!” remarked Hannington. “Now, give me your information, my deah Langford.”
“If the man I name gets convicted, or if you fail to lay a charge against him, the money comes to me? Do I get the arrangement right?”
“You have it absolutely, my careful Scotsman. Fire away! Fire away!”
“You got that, Mr. Todd?” queried Jim.
“Absolutely!” mocked the editor.
“Well, gentleman,––the name of the man who painted Mr. Percival DeRue Hannington’s mare is––James Langford, your most humble and obedient servant, and very much at the service of both of you.”
Ben Todd grunted.
The Englishman sat bolt upright. His chin dropped and he gaped, his fingers running nervously up and down over the gilt metal buttons of his fancy waistcoat. He rose slowly from his chair and his face grew pale in his anger; then it became red and perspiry.
“You––you confounded scoundrel! You––you miserable individual! You––you trickster!”
“Go on,––go on!” put in Jim coolly, “the more you call me down, the better I like it. I’m a positive glutton for anathema. Mr. DeRue Hannington simply eats up elocution,––eh, Ben!”
The editor smiled dryly. “He does, but he is finding250some difficulty in digesting some of yours, Jim, and I’m not surprised at it.”
Jim held over the desk ’phone to Hannington.
“Better ’phone up for Palmer and get it over.”
Hannington pushed the receiver away.
“I refuse,––I––I decline absolutely. I shan’t prosecute,––damned if I do! It is downright blackmail. Yes,––by gad! Give me back my cheque, Mr. Todd, and let me go. I’m jolly-well sick of this.”
“‘Give me my principal and let me go,’” quoted Jim in mockery.
“I can’t do that, Mr. Hannington. Sorry,” said the editor, “but if you decline to prosecute, the money goes to Mr. Langford.”
“Then, by gad!” cried Hannington, “I shall prosecute to the utmost deuced rigour of the bally law, and be-dimned to him. You cawn’t fool lightly with a DeRue Hannington,––no sirs!
“I’ll have you understand we DeRue Hanningtons are fighters. My great-great-grandfathers both fought at Waterloo, DeRue on the side of the French and Hannington on the side of the British,––yes, sirs!”
“I’m thinking maybe that explains why you are not quite sure now whether you are the prosecutor or the prosecuted,” pawkily remarked Jim.
Hannington glared, grabbed up the telephone and called for the police station. As usual, Palmer was up on his ranch, and Hannington had to be contented with Howden, the deputy, who got over to theAdvertiseroffice almost immediately and, in a very short space of time afterwards, he had the not unwilling Jim safely locked up for the night in the town jail.
Howden, to save himself a little labour––ostensibly for the sake of his friendship with Jim, but really to leave himself free for his evening’s amours with a waitress at251the Kenora––offered to allow Jim to go home if he would promise to show up at the Court in the morning, but Jim was too fond of experience and too susceptible of melodrama to pass up so golden an opportunity;––he refused to give his parole and in consequence slept soundly and innocently on a little camp bed, in a ten by five cell, at the expense of the municipality.
As soon as the news got about––which it did with astounding rapidity––the entire town was in a fit of merriment over the latest exploit of the wily Langford and the discomfiture of DeRue Hannington; and early the following morning, when the local police magistrate was still negotiating his matutinal egg, the little Courtroom was packed to overflowing.
Phil called off work for an hour or two in order to be on hand should Jim require his aid in any way.
The voluminous and cheerful judge disposed of a case of petty thieving in quick time, then called the case against James Langford for cruelty to animals and destruction of property.
When Jim appeared––his eyes twinkling, but his face as solemn as a parish minister at the funeral of a wealthy and generous member of his congregation, a muffled cheer broke out, which was promptly squelched by the magistrate, to DeRue Hannington’s undisguised pleasure.
The case against Jim was read. He pleaded guilty, refusing lawyer’s aid or the privilege of stepping into the witness box. There were no dramatics––at least not until the police magistrate pronounced the sentence.
“James Langford,” he droned severely, “have you ever been tried before for a criminal act of any kind?”
“No, sir!”
“This is your first offence?”
“No, sir!––but the first time I’ve been caught.”
“Now, Jim,––that’ll do!” reprimanded the magistrate,252forgetting his courtly dignity for the moment and breaking into a grin; for Jim and he were cronies of long standing.
“I deeply regret that I cannot give you the benefit of the First Offender’s Act. These boyish pranks of yours must be put down. You will be breaking windows and riding your horse on the sidewalk next if we allow you to go on in this way, unpunished. You are a big lad now and it is high time you were beginning to take life seriously.”
Hannington nodded his head approvingly, and clasped his hands over his stomach.
“In pronouncing sentence, I hope you will take this lesson to heart and that this will be your last appearance before this or any other Court of Justice.
“I fine you fifty dollars and costs, and command that you wash and scrub Percival DeRue Hannington’s mare, between the hours of two and four p.m. in front of the Court House, every day, until the animal is restored to its natural colour.”
A wild laugh and a great shuffling of feet greeted the sentence.
DeRue Hannington sprang up indignantly, his face bursting red with anger.
“But sir––but sir––I––I! Fifty dollars?––why––I paid one thousand dollars to get him here. Your Honour, it is a positive scandal––a perfect outrage!”
“Silence, sir!” commanded the magistrate.
“But it is an outrage, sir. I insist––it is a low, beastly trick. I appeal––I–––”
“Silence!” roared the magistrate again. “One word more, sir, and I’ll commit you for contempt of Court. Next case!”
At the Court House door the crowd seized upon Jim, hoisted him on their shoulders and carried him down253Main Street, singing and chaffing as happily as if Jim had just won an election.
At the Commercial Bank Jim stopped them and beckoned to Phil.
“Say!––get your thousand dollars out of the Bank and we’ll have the crowd take us to Dalton’s office right away. I got Hannington’s cheque, marked O.K., from Ben Todd in the Court House. We’ll call Dalton’s bluff for once––and at once.”
Phil rushed into the Bank and was back in three minutes with the money in his possession.
“Now boys!” shouted Jim, “down to Dalton’s office and then to the Kenora.”
Off they went, shouting and singing as before, not particular as to what it was all about, but simply keen on making an uproar––and as big a one as possible––now that the opportunity presented itself.
James Dalton––sole proprietor of the Dalton Realty Company––was standing at the door of his office, watching the actions of the oncoming crowd. The moment he saw Jim, however, he hurried inside.
The mob stopped at the door. Jim jumped to the ground.
“Come on in, Phil! Stay there, boys––just for a minute or two. There are drinks for the crowd at the end of this trip.”
By this time, Dalton was sitting behind his desk, his thumb in the armhole of his vest, nervously chewing at the end of an unlighted cigar.
“I bought the Brantlock Ranch from you the other day, Rattler.”
“That’s right,––go to it!” ventured Dalton as a try-out. “I kind of half expected something like this.”
“Are you going to deny it?”
“If you mean, am I going to deny that I gave a gink,254half dippy with booze, an Agreement for Sale in temporary exchange for a bunch of horses that he couldn’t look after and was liable to have pinched on him; if you mean am I going to deny that I did it to save him losin’ what he couldn’t keep an eye on himself,––then I ain’t.”
Dalton leaned back, still pale from excitement but not at all unsatisfied with his vocal delivery.
Jim looked over to Phil in sheer astonishment at the man’s audacity. Phil smiled in return.
“What do you think of that now;––the Rattler turned ‘good Samaritan’?
“And you did it just out of the goodness of your kind, unselfish, little, palpitating heart, Dalton?”
“I ain’t throwin’ any bouquets at myself,” remarked Dalton.
“And where are the horses you were so kind as to look after for me?”
“I made a better sale of them hat-racks than you ever could ’a’ done. I got eight hundred bucks for the bunch. And I’m ready to give you a cheque for that amount, less ten percent for puttin’ the deal through;––seven hundred and twenty bucks, the minute you hand over the phoney agreement which I was dam-fool enough to give you at the time to satisfy your would-be lawyer’s intooition and to keep you from yappin’ all over the country.”
Jim went up to the desk and leaned over toward Dalton.
Dalton leaned back in his chair, so far back that he nearly tip-tilted over it.
“Rattler,” said Jim, “come off your perch. It isn’t any good. ‘’Tain’t the knowing kind of cattle that is ketched with mouldy corn,’” he quoted roughly.
“I ain’t professin’ to be up to your high-falutin’ talk, Langford, but I get the drift; and I guess you think I’d be batty enough to give you a ranch worth seven thousand bucks on an Agreement for Sale in exchange for a255bunch of old spavined mules and three thousand bucks on time.”
Jim pulled the Agreement out of his pocket and threw it on the desk, thumping his fist down hard on top of it right under Rattlesnake’s sharp nose, causing Dalton to jump again.
“See that?”
“Yep,––guess I do!”
“Well,––you’re going to abide by it.”
“I am?––like hell!” said Dalton.
Phil took a gun from his pocket and handed it to Jim.
Jim toyed with it. “See that?”
“Can it, Langford! Gun stuff don’t go down with me. It is ancient history. You’ll get pinched again if you try that on.”
“But you see it––don’t you?”
“Sure thing! I ain’t got ’stigmatism that bad yet.”
“Well, Rattler,––it isn’t loaded, but I am going to rap you over the koko with it if you don’t be a good boy and do as you are told.”
“Now,––repeat after me!”
Dalton laughed and rolled his eyes upward to the ceiling.
Jim’s arm darted out and the butt-end of the revolver caught Dalton such a sharp rap over the head that that individual was some seconds before he recovered.
“Now,” said Jim, “are you ready?”
Dalton sat tight.
“Hi, boys!” shouted Langford sharply, a sudden inspiration seizing him. “I’ve got a dirty horse-thief, red-handed and self-confessed. Bring in a rope. We can start him with a dip in the horse-trough.”
Three husky individuals strode inside.
Dalton gasped. He knew just what the men in the256Valley thought of horse-stealing, in general, and he was all unprepared for this sudden move of Jim’s.
“Steady a minute, boys!” exclaimed Jim. “It seems that Dalton has not quite made up his mind as to whether he stole those horses of mine that he sold afterwards, or simply took them from me in part-payment of the Brantlock Ranch.
“Now, Rattler, come on, repeat your little spiel after me, or go with the boys and get what’s coming to you.”
Dalton saw the game was up.
“This Agreement,” said Jim.
“This Agreement,” repeated Dalton sheepishly.
“Is a real, genuine Agreement.”
“Is a real, genuine Agreement,” continued the other.
“Between Jim Langford and me, and stands good.”
“Between Jim Langford and me, and stands good.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, boys!––but Dalton remembers now that he didn’t steal my horses,––he bought them.
“Now Rattler, darling!––Phil Ralston and I are taking up that Agreement and want possession of the ranch right away.”
Dalton licked his lips.
“There’s two thousand plunks due me to-day on that there agreement.”
“And there’s the money, my bonnie boy!”
Jim threw Hannington’s marked cheque on the table. Phil followed with ten one-hundred-dollar bills.
“Make out your receipt, son,––quick!”
Rattlesnake Jim turned a sickly white and looked at the two before him in a blank kind of way, then his eyes travelled to the three men by the window and over to the crowd at the door, none of whom had any sympathy for him, but, on the contrary were all aching for the pleasure of dipping him––or anyone else for that matter––into the nearby horse-trough.