Copper Streak Trail

by Eugene Manlove Rhodes

  CHAPTER II

  The immemorial traditions of Old Spain, backed by the counsel of a brazensun, made a last stand against the inexorable centuries: Tucson was atsiesta; noonday lull was drowsy in the corridors of the Merchants andMiners Bank. Green shades along the south guarded the cool and quietspaciousness of the Merchants and Miners, flooded with clear white lightfrom the northern windows. In the lobby a single client, leaning on thesill at the note-teller's window, meekly awaited the convenience of theoffice force.

  The Castilian influence had reduced the office force, at this ebb hour ofbusiness, to a spruce, shirt-sleeved young man, green-vizored as to hiseyes, seated at a mid-office desk, quite engrossed with mysteriousclerical matters.

  The office force had glanced up at Mr. Johnson's first entrance, but onlyto resume its work at once. Such industry is not the custom; among theassets of any bank, courtesy is the most indispensable item. Mr. Johnsonwas not unversed in the ways of urbanity; the purposed and palpableincivility was not wasted upon him; nor yet the expression conveyed bythe back of the indefatigable clerical person--a humped, reluctant, andrebellious back. If ever a back steeled itself to carry out a distastefultask according to instructions, this was that back. Mr. Pete Johnsonsighed in sympathy.

  The minutes droned by. A clock, of hitherto unassuming habit, becameclamorous; it echoed along the dreaming corridors. Mr. Johnson sighedagain.

  The stone sill upon which he leaned reflected from its polished surface aface carved to patience; but if the patient face had noted its ownreflection it might have remarked--and adjusted--eyebrows not so patient,flattened to a level; and a slight quiver in the tip of a predatory nose.The pen squeaked across glazed paper. Mr. Johnson took from his pocket along, thin cigar and a box of safety matches.

  The match crackled, startling in the silence; the clerical person turnedin his chair and directed at the prospective customer a stare so balefulthat the cigar was forgotten. The flame nipped Johnson's thumb; hedropped the match on the tiled floor and stepped upon it. The clerkhesitated and then rose.

  "He loves me--he loves me not!" murmured Mr. Johnson sadly, plucking thepetals from an imaginary daisy.

  The clerk sauntered to the teller's wicket and frowned upon his customerfrom under eyebrows arched and supercilious; he preserved a haughtysilence. Before this official disapproval Peter's eyes wavered and fell,abashed.

  "I'll--I'll stick my face through there if you'd like to step on it!" hefaltered.

  The official eyebrows grew arrogant.

  "You are wasting my time. Have you any business here?"

  "Ya-as. Be you the cashier?"

  "His assistant."

  "I'd like to borrow some money," said Pete timidly. He tucked away theunlit cigar. "Two thousand. Name of Johnson. Triangle E brand--YavapaiCounty! Two hundred Herefords in a fenced township. Three hundred andtwenty acres patented land. Sixty acres under ditch. I'd give you amortgage on that. Pete Johnson--Peter Wallace Johnson on mortgages andwarrants."

  "I do not think we would consider it."

  "Good security--none better," said Pete. "Good for three times twothousand at a forced sale."

  "Doubtless!" The official shoulders shrugged incredulity.

  "I'm known round here--you could look up my standing, verify titles, andso on," urged Pete.

  "I could not make the loan on my own authority."

  Pete's face fell.

  "Can't I see Mr. Gans, then?" he persisted.

  "He's out to luncheon."

  "Be back soon?"

  "I really could not say."

  "I might talk to Mr. Longman, perhaps?"

  "Mr. Longman is on a trip to the Coast."

  Johnson twisted his fingers nervously on the onyx sill. Then he raisedhis downcast eyes, lit with a fresh hope.

  "Is--is the janitor in?" he asked.

  "You are pleased to be facetious, sir," the teller replied. His lipcurled; he turned away, tilting his chin with conscious dignity.

  Mr. Johnson tapped the sill with the finger of authority.

  "Young man, do you want I should throw this bank out of the window?" hesaid severely. "Because if you don't, you uncover some one a grown mancan do business with. You're suffering from delusions of grandeur, fairyoung sir. I almost believe you have permitted yourself to indulge insome levity with me--me, P. Wallace Johnson! And if I note any morelight-hearted conduct on your part I'll shake myself and make merry withyou till you'll think the roof has done fell on you. Now you dig up theGrand Panjandrum, with the little round button on top, or I'll come inunto you! Produce! Trot!"

  The cashier's dignity abated. Mr. Johnson was, by repute, no strangerto him. Not sorry to pass this importunate borrower on to other hands,he tapped at a door labeled "Vice-President," opened it, and saidsomething in a low voice. From this room a man emerged at once--Marsh,vice-president, solid of body, strong of brow. Clenched between heavylips was a half-burned cigar, on which he puffed angrily.

  "Well, Johnson, what's this?" he demanded.

  "You got money to sell? I want to buy some. Let me come in and talk it upto you."

  "Let him in, Hudson," said Marsh. His cigar took on a truculent angle ashe listened to Johnson's proposition.

  It appeared that Johnson's late outburst of petulance had cleared hisbosom of much perilous stuff. His crisp tones carried a suggestion oflingering asperity, but otherwise he bore himself with becoming modestyand diffidence in the presence of the great man. He stated his needsbriskly and briefly, as before.

  "Money is tight," said Marsh curtly.

  He scowled; he thrust his hands into his pockets as if to guard them; herocked back upon his heels; his eyes were leveled at a point in spacebeyond Pete's shoulder; he clamped his cigar between compressed lips andpuffed a cloud of smoke from a corner of a mouth otherwise grimly tight.

  Mr. Peter Johnson thought again of that unlit cigar, came swiftly totiptoe, and puffed a light from the glowing tip of Marsh's cigar beforethat astonished person could withdraw his gaze from the contemplation ofremote infinities. The banker recoiled, flushed and frowning; the tellerbent hastily over his ledger.

  Johnson, puffing luxuriously, renewed his argument with a guileless face.Marsh shook his head and made a bear-trap mouth.

  "Why don't you go to Prescott, Johnson? There's where your stuff is. Theyknow you better than we do."

  "Why, Mr. Marsh, I don't want to go to Prescott. Takes too long. I needthis money right away."

  "Really--but that is hardly our affair, is it?" A frosty smileaccompanied the query.

  "Aw, what's wrong? Isn't that security all right?" urged Pete.

  "No doubt the security is exactly as you say," said the banker, "but yourproperty is in another county, a long distance from here. We would haveto make inquiries and send the mortgage to be filed in Prescott--veryinconvenient. Besides, as I told you before, money is tight. We regretthat we cannot see our way to accommodate you. This is final!"

  "Shucks!" said Pete, crestfallen and disappointed; he lingereduncertainly, twisting his hat brim between his hands.

  "That is final," repeated the banker. "Was there anything else?"

  "A check to cash," said Pete humbly.

  He went back into the lobby, much chastened; the spring lock of the doorsnapped behind him.

  "Wait on this gentleman, if you please, Mr. Hudson," said Marsh, andbusied himself at a cabinet.

  Hudson rose from his desk and moved across to the cashier's window. Hislip curved disdainfully. Mr. Johnson's feet were brisk and cheerful onthe tiles. When his face appeared at the window, his hat and the longblack cigar were pushed up to angles parallel, jaunty and perilous. Heheld in his hand a sheaf of papers belted with a rubber band; he slidover the topmost of these papers, face down.

  "It's endorsed," he said, pointing to his heavy signature.

  "How will you have it, sir?" Hudson inquired with a smile of mockingdeference.

  "Quick and now," said Pete.

  Hudson flipped over the chec
k. The sneer died from his face. His tonguelicked at his paling lips.

  "What does this mean?" he stammered.

  "Can't you read?" said Pete.

  The cashier did not answer. He turned and called across the room:

  "Mr. Marsh! Mr. Marsh!"

  Marsh came quickly, warned by the startled note in the cashier's voice.Hudson passed him the check with hands that trembled a little. Thevice-president's face mottled with red and white. The check was madeto the order of P.W. Johnson; it was signed by Henry Bergman, sheriffof Pima County, and the richest cowman of the Santa Cruz Valley; theamount was eighty-six thousand dollars.

  Marsh glowered at Johnson in a cold fury.

  "Call up Bergman!" he ordered.

  Hudson made haste to obey.

  "Oh, that's all right! I'd just as soon wait," said Pete cheerfully."Hank's at home, anyhow. I told him maybe you'd want to ask about thecheck."

  "He should have notified us before drawing out any such amount," fumedMarsh. "This is most unusual, for a small bank like this. He told us heshouldn't need this money until this fall."

  "Draft on El Paso will do. Don't have to have cash."

  "All very well--but it will be a great inconvenience to us, just thesame."

  "Really--but that is hardly our affair, is it?" said Pete carelessly.

  The banker smote the shelf with an angry hand; some of the rouleaus ofgold stacked on the inner shelf toppled and fell; gold pieces clatteredon the floor.

  "Johnson, what is your motive? What are you up to?"

  "It's all perfectly simple. Old Hank and me used to be implicatedtogether in the cow business down on the Concho. One of the GoliadBergmans--early German settlers."

  Here Hudson hung up and made interruption.

  "Bergman says the check is right," he reported.

  Johnson resumed his explanation:

  "As I was sayin', I reckon I know all the old-time cowmen from here tobreakfast and back. Old Joe Benavides, now--one of your best depositors;I fished Joe out of Manzanillo Bay thirty year back. He was all drownedbut Amen."

  Wetting his thumb he slipped off the next paper from under the rubberband. Marsh eyed the sheaf apprehensively and winced.

  "Got one of Joe's checks here," Pete continued, smoothing it out. "Butmaybe I won't need to cash it--to-day."

  "Johnson," said the vice-president, "are you trying to start a run onthis bank? What do you want?"

  "My money. What the check calls for. That is final."

  "This is sheer malice."

  "Not a bit of it. You're all wrong. Just common prudence--that's all. Yousee, I needed a little money. As I was tellin' you, I got right smart ofproperty, but no cash just now; nor any comin' till steer-sellin' time.So I come down to Tucson on the rustle. Five banks in Tucson; four of'em, countin' yours, turned me down cold."

  "If you had got Bergman to sign with you--" Marsh began.

  "Tell that to the submarines," said Pete. "Good irrigated land is betterthan any man's name on a note; and I don't care who that man is. A manmight die or run away, or play the market. Land stays put. Well, after myfirst glimpse of the cold shoulder I ciphered round a spell. I'm a greathand to cipher round. Some one is out to down me; some one is givin' outorders. Who? Mayer Zurich, I judged. He sold me a shoddy coat once. Andhe wept because he couldn't loan me the money I wanted, himself. He's oneof these liers-in-wait you read about--Mayer is.

  "So I didn't come to you till the last, bein' as Zurich was one of yourdirectors. I studied some more--and then I hunted up old Hank Bergman andtold him my troubles," said Pete suavely. "He expressed quite someconsiderable solicitude. 'Why, Petey, this is a shockin' disclosure!' hesays. 'A banker is a man that makes a livin' loanin' other people'smoney. Lots of marble and brass to a bank, salaries and other expenses.Show me a bank that's quit lendin' money and I'll show you a bank that'sdue to bust, _muy pronto!_ I got quite a wad in the Merchants andMiners,' he says, 'and you alarm me. I'll give you a check for it, andyou go there first off to-morrow and see if they'll lend you what youneed. You got good security. If they ain't lendin',' he says, 'then youjust cash my check and invest it for me where it will be safe. I lose theinterest for only four days,' he says--'last Monday, the fifteenth, beingmy quarter day. Hold out what you need for yourself.'

  "'I don't want any,' says I. 'The First National say they can fit me outby Wednesday if I can't get it before. Man don't want to borrow from hisfriends,' says I. 'Then put my roll in the First National,' says Hank.That's all! Only--I saw some of the other old-timers last night." Petefingered his sheaf significantly.

  "You have us!" said Marsh. "What do you want?"

  "I want the money for this check--so you'll know I'm not permeated withany ideas about heaping coals of fire on your old bald head. Comethrough, real earnest! I'll see about the rest. Exerting financialpressure is what they call this little racket you worked on me, Ibelieve. It's a real nice game. I like it. If you ever mull or meddlewith my affairs again I'll turn another check. That's for your officialinformation--so you can keep the bank from any little indiscretions. I'mtelling you! This isn't blackmail. This is directions. Sit down and writeme a draft on El Paso."

  Marsh complied. Peter Johnson inspected the draft carefully.

  "So much for the bank for to-day, the nineteenth," said Pete. "Now a fewkind words for you as the individual, Mr. George Marsh, quite aside fromyour capacity as a banker. You report to Zurich that I applied for a loanand you refused it--not a word more. I'm tellin' you! Put a blab on youroffice boy." He rolled his thumb at young Hudson. "And hereafter if youever horn in on my affairs so much as the weight of a finger tip--I'mtellin' you now!--I'll appear to you!"