Square Deal Sanderson

by Charles Alden Seltzer

  CHAPTER XXI

  A MAN BORROWS MONEY

  The incident of Devil's Hole had changed the character of the fightingbetween Sanderson and Dale. Dale and his fellow-conspirators haddeserted that law upon which, until the incident of Devil's Hole, theyhad depended. They had resorted to savagery, to murder; they hadcommitted themselves to a course that left Sanderson no choice exceptto imitate them.

  And Sanderson was willing. More, he was anxious. He had respected thelaw; and still respected it. But he had never respected the lawrepresented by his three enemies. He was determined to avenge themurder of his men, but in his own time and in his own way.

  His soul was in the grip of a mighty rage against Dale and the others;he longed to come into personal contact with them--to feel them writheand squirm in his clutch. And had he been the free agent he had alwaysbeen until his coming to the Double A he would have gone straight toOkar, thus yielding to the blood lust that swelled his veins.

  But he could not permit his inclinations to ruin the girl he hadpromised to protect. He could kill Dale, Silverthorn, and Maison quiteeasily. But he would have no defense for the deed, and the law wouldforce him to desert Mary Bransford.

  For an entire day following the return of himself and his men from thescene of the stampede Sanderson fought a terrific mental battle. Hesaid nothing to Mary Bransford, after giving her the few bare factsthat described the destruction of the herd. But the girl watched himanxiously, suspecting something of the grim thoughts that tortured him,and at dinner she spoke to him.

  "Deal," she said, "don't be rash. Those men have done a lawless thing,but they still have the power to invoke the law against you."

  "I ain't goin' to be lawless--yet," he grinned.

  But Sanderson was yielding to an impulse that had assailed him. Hismanner betrayed him to Owen, at least, who spoke to Mary about it.

  "He's framing up something--or he's got it framed up and is ready toact," he told the girl. "He has got that calm during the past fewhours that I feel like I'm in the presence of an iceberg when I'm nearhim."

  Whatever was on Sanderson's mind he kept to himself. But late thatnight, when the ranchhouse was dark, and a look through one of thewindows of the bunkhouse showed Sanderson there were only two menawake--and they playing cards sleepily--he threw saddle and bridle onStreak and rode away into the inky darkness of the basin.

  Shortly after dusk on the same night Silverthorn, Dale, and Maison weresitting at a table in Maison's private office in the bank building.They, too, were playing cards.

  But their thoughts were not on the cards. Elation filled their hearts.

  Dale was dealing, but it was plain that he took no interest in thegame. At last, with a gesture of disgust, he threw the cards face upon the table and smiled at the others.

  "What's the use?" he said. "I keep thinking of what happened atDevil's Hole. We ought to have been sure that we finished the job, an'we would have been sure if we hadn't known that that damned Colfaxsheriff was hanging around somewhere.

  "He took two hundred head from Sanderson--when he ought to have takenthe whole damn herd--which he'd orders to do. And then, instead ofdriving them direct to Lester's he made camp just on the other side ofDevil's Hole--three or four miles, Morley said. I don't know what for,except that maybe he's decided to give Sanderson the steers he'd takenfrom him--the damned fool! You've got to break him, Maison, fordisobeying orders!"

  "I'll attend to him," said Maison.

  "That's the reason we didn't go through Devil's Hole to see what hadbecome of Sanderson," resumed Dale. "We was afraid of running into thesheriff, and him, being the kind of a fool he is, would likely havewanted to know what had happened. I thought it better to sneak offwithout letting him see us than to do any explaining."

  Silverthorn looked at his watch. "Morley and the others ought to behere pretty soon," he said.

  "They're late as it is," grumbled Dale. "I ought to have gone myself."

  They resumed their card-playing. An hour or so later there came aknock on the door of the bank--a back door--and Dale opened it to admitMorley--the big man who had drawn a pistol on Sanderson when he hadtried to take Barney Owen out of the City Hotel barroom.

  Morley was alone. He stepped inside without invitation and grinned atthe others.

  "There's no sign of Sanderson. Someone had been there an' planted theguys we salivated--an' the guy which went down in the run. We seen hishorse layin' there, cut to ribbons. It's likely Sanderson went intothe sand ahead of the herd--they was crowdin' him pretty close when weseen them runnin'."

  "You say them guys was planted?" said Dale. "Then Sanderson got out ofit. He would--if anyone could, for he was riding like a devil on acyclone when I saw him. He's got back, and took his men to Devil'sHole."

  Maison laughed. "We'll say he got out of it. What of it? He's broke.And if the damned court would get a move on with that evidence we'vesent over to prove that he isn't a Bransford, we'd have the Double Ainside of a week!"

  Dale got up, grinning and looking at his watch.

  "Well, gentlemen, I'm hitting the breeze to the Bar D for some sleep.See you tomorrow."

  Dale went out and mounted his horse. But he did not go straight home,as he had declared he would. After striking the neck of the basin heswerved his horse and rode northeastward toward Ben Nyland's cabin.

  For he had heard that day in Okar that Ben Nyland had taken a traineastward that morning, to return on the afternoon of the day following.And during the time Dale had been talking with Maison; and Silverthorn,and playing cards with them, he thought often of Peggy Nyland.

  Silverthorn and Morley did not remain long in Maison's private room inthe bank building.

  Morley had promised to play cards with some of his men in the CityHotel barroom, and he joined them there, while Silverthorn went to hisrooms in the upper story of the station.

  After the departure of the others, Maison sat for a long time at thetable in the private room, making figures on paper.

  Maison had exacted from the world all the luxuries he thought hispampered body desired. His financial career would not have borneinvestigation, but Maison's operations had been so smooth and subtlethat he had left no point at which an enemy could begin aninvestigation.

  But years of questionable practice had had an inevitable effect uponMaison. Outwardly, he had hardened, but only Maison knew of the manydevils his conscience created for him.

  Continued communion with the devils of conscience had made a coward ofMaison. When at last he got up from the table he glancedapprehensively around the room; and after he had put out the light andclimbed the stairs to his rooms above the bank, he was trembling.

  Maison had often dealt crookedly with his fellow-men, but never, untilthe incident of Devil's Hole, had he deliberately planned murder. Thustonight Maison's conscience had more ghastly evidence to confront himwith, and conscience is a pitiless retributive agent.

  Maison poured himself a generous drink of whisky from a bottle on asideboard before he got into bed, but the story told him by Dale andthe others of the terrible scene at Devil's Hole--remained so staringlyvivid in his thoughts that whisky could not dim it.

  He groaned and pulled the covers over his head, squirming and twisting,for the night was warm and there was little air stirring.

  After a while Maison sat up. It seemed to him that he had been in bedfor an age, though actually the time was not longer than an hour.

  It had been late when he had left the room downstairs. And now helistened for sounds that would tell him that Okar's citizens were stillbusy with their pleasures.

  But no sound came from the street. Maison yearned for company, for hefelt unaccountably depressed and morbid. It was as though some dangerimpended and instinct was warning him of it.

  But in the dead silence of Okar there was no suggestion of sound. Itmust have been in the ghostly hours between midnight and thedawn--though a cold terror that had gripped Maison wo
uld not let himget up to look at the clock that ticked monotonously on the sideboard.

  He lay, clammy with sweat, every sense strained and acute, listening.For, from continued contemplation of imaginary dangers he had workedhimself into a frenzy which would have turned into a conviction of realdanger at the slightest sound near him.

  He expected sound to come; he waited for it, his ears attuned, hissenses alert.

  And at last sound came.

  It was a mere creak--such a sound as a foot might make on a stairway.And it seemed to have come from the stairs leading to Maison's rooms.

  He did not hear it again, though, and he might have fought off the newterror that was gripping him, if at that instant he had not rememberedthat when leaving the lower room he had forgotten to lock the reardoor--the door through which Morley had entered earlier in the evening;the door through which Silverthorn had departed.

  He had not locked that door, and that noise on the stairs might havebeen made by some night prowler.

  Aroused to desperation by his fears he started to get out of bed withthe intention of getting the revolver that lay in a drawer in thesideboard.

  His feet were on the floor as he sat on the edge of the bed preparatoryto standing, when he saw the door at the head of the stairs slowlyswing open and a figure of a man appear in the opening.

  The light in the room was faint--a mere luminous star-mist--hut Maisoncould see clearly the man's face. He stiffened, his hands gripping thebedclothing, as he muttered hoarsely:

  "Sanderson!"

  Sanderson stepped into the room and closed the door. The heavysix-shooter in his hand was at his hip, the long barrel horizontal, thebig muzzle gaping forebodingly into Maison's face. There was a cold,mirthless grin on Sanderson's face, but it seemed to Maison that thegrin was the wanton expression of murder lust.

  He knew, without Sanderson telling him, that if he moved, or made theslightest outcry, Sanderson would kill him.

  Therefore he made neither move nor sound, but sat there, rigid andgasping for breath, awaiting the other's pleasure.

  Sanderson came close to him, speaking in a vibrant whisper:

  "Anyone in the house with you? If you speak above a whisper I'll blowyou apart!"

  "I'm alone!" gasped Maison.

  Sanderson laughed lowly. "You must have known I was comin'. Did youexpect me? Well--" when Maison did not answer--"you left the rear dooropen. Obliged to you.

  "You know what I came for? No?" His voice was still low and vibrant."I came to talk over what happened at Devil's Hole."

  Maison's eyes bulged with horror.

  "I see you know about it, all right. I'm glad of that. Seven menmurdered; three thousand head of cattle gone. Mebbe they didn't all gointo the quicksand--I don't know. What I do know is this: they've gotto be paid for--men an' cattle. Understand? Cattle an' men."

  The cold emphasis he laid on the "and" made a shiver run over thebanker.

  "Money will pay for cattle," went on Sanderson. "I'll collect a manfor every man you killed at Devil's Hole."

  He laughed in feline humor when Maison squirmed at the words.

  "You think your life is more valuable than the life of any one of themen you killed at Devil's Hole, eh? Soapy was worth a hundred likeyou! An' Sogun--an' all the rest! Understand? They were real men,doin' some good in the world. I'm tellin' you this so you'll know thatI don't think you amount to a hell of a lot, an' that I wouldn't suffera heap with remorse if you'd open your trap for one little peep an' I'dhave to blow your guts out!"

  A devil of conscience had finally visited Maison--a devil in the flesh.For all the violent passions were aflame in Sanderson's face, repressedbut needing only provocation to loose them.

  Maison knew what impended. But he succeeded in speaking, though thewords caught, stranglingly, in his throat:

  "W-what do you--want?"

  "Ninety thousand dollars. The market price for three thousand head ofcattle."

  "There isn't that much in the vaults!" protested Maison in a gaspingwhisper. "We never keep that amount of money on hand."

  He would have said more, but he saw Sanderson's grin become bitter; sawthe arm holding the six-shooter stiffen suggestively.

  Maison raised his hands in horror.

  "Wait!" he said, pleadingly. "I'll see. Good God, man, keep themuzzle of that gun away!"

  "Ninety thousand will do it," Sanderson grimly told him, "ninetythousand. No less. You can ask that God you call on so reckless tohave ninety thousand in the vault when you go to look for it, rightaway.

  "Get up an' dress!" he commanded.

  He stood silently watching the banker as the latter got into hisclothing. Then, with a wave of his gun in the direction of the stairshe ordered Maison to precede him. He kept close to the banker in thedarkness of the rooms through which they passed, and finally when theyreached the little room into which opened the big doors of thevault--embedded in solid masonry--Sanderson again spoke:

  "I want it in bills of large denomination." The banker was on hisknees before the doors, working at the combination, and he lookedaround in silent objection at Sanderson's voice.

  "Big ones, I said," repeated the latter. "You've got them. I was inSilverthorn's rooms some hours ago, lookin' over his books an' things.I saw a note there, showin' that he'd deposited fifty thousand here theday before yesterday. The note said it was cash. You'll have fortythousand more. If you ain't got it you'll wish you had."

  Maison had it. He drew it out in packages--saffron-hued notes that hepassed back to Sanderson reluctantly. When he had passed back theexact amount he looked around.

  Sanderson ordered him to close the doors, and with the banker precedinghim they returned to the upper room, where Sanderson distributed themoney over his person securely, the banker watching him.

  When Sanderson had finished, he again spoke. There was elation in hiseyes, but they still were aflame with the threat of death and violence.

  "Who's the biggest an' most honest man in town?" he said, "the one manthat the folks here always think of when they're in trouble an' want asquare deal? Every town always has such a man. Who is he?"

  "Judge Graney," said Maison.

  "All right," declared Sanderson. "We'll go see Judge Graney. You'regoin' to lead me to the place where he lives. We're goin' to have himwitness that you've paid me ninety thousand dollars for the stock youdestroyed--my cattle. He's goin' to be all the law I'm goin' to dependon--in this case. After a while--if you sneaks go too strong--I'll letloose a little of my own law--the kind I've showed you tonight.

  "You're goin' to Judge Graney's place, an' you're goin' to sign a papershowin' you paid me the money for my cattle. You ain't goin' to makeany noise on the way, or to Judge Graney. You're goin' to do thetalkin' an' tell Graney that you want him to witness the deal. An'you're goin' to do it without him gettin' wise that I'm forcin' you.You'll have to do some actin', an' if you fall down on this job you'llnever have to act again! Get goin'!"

  Maison was careful not to make any noise as he went down the stairs; hewas equally careful when he reached the street.

  In a short time, Sanderson walking close behind him, he halted at adoor of a private dwelling. He knocked on the door, and a short, squatman appeared in the opening, holding a kerosene lamp in one hand and asix-shooter in the other.

  He recognized Maison instantly and politely asked him and his visitorinside. There Maison stated his business, and the judge, thoughrevealing some surprise that so big a transaction should be concludedat so uncommon an hour, attested the paper made out by Maison, andsigned the receipt for ninety thousand dollars written by Sanderson andgiven to the banker. Then, still followed by Sanderson, the bankerwent out.

  There was no word spoken by either of the men until they again reachedthe bank building. Then it was Sanderson who spoke.

  "That's all, Maison," he said. "Talk, if you must--mebbe it'll keepyou from explodin'. But if there's any more meddlin' wit
h myaffairs--by you--I'm comin' for you again. An' the next time it'll beto make you pay for my men!"

  He slipped behind the bank building and was gone. A little later,still standing where Sanderson had left him, he saw the Double A manriding swiftly across country toward the neck of the basin.

  Maison went slowly upstairs, lighted a lamp, and looked at hisreflection in a glass. He sighed, blew out the light, got into bed andstretched out in relief, feeling that he had got out of the affaircheaply enough, considering all things.

  And remembering what Sanderson had told him about returning, hedetermined that if Judge Graney said nothing of the occurrence he wouldnever mention it. For he did not want Sanderson to pay him anothervisit.