The Highgrader

by Raine, William MacLeod

  "Must be this wharf," India said presently, as a bulky shadow loomed out of the darkness.

  "Shouldn't wonder. Here's a big rock just below it. Didn't the paper say something about a rock?" asked the captain.

  "Twelve steps below big rock, it says."

  The soldier paced off the distance. "What now?"

  "Three yards from the shore," called his sister. "There should be a gunny sack, whatever that is."

  "Afraid he's spoofing us," Kilmeny said with a laugh as he moved out in his waders against the current. "Here I am. What's the next direction?"

  India giggled. She was Irish enough to get the humorous side of things and could not help being frivolous even when she was greatly interested. "Now you look over your left shoulder at the moon and wish."

  Her brother's high voice cut in. "I say. My foot's kicking something. Wait a jiff."

  He braced his feet, dived suddenly down with one arm till his face touched the water, and grappled with his fingers for a hold on something lying between two rocks at the bottom. When he straightened again it was with an effort. He did not attempt to raise his burden from the stream, but waded ashore with it. Using both hands, he dragged his find to land.

  "It's a sack," India cried excitedly.

  The captain's eyes met those of Moya. His face was grave, but she was white to the lips. Both of them felt sure of what they would find in the sack.

  "Open it," she told him tensely.

  With his pocketknife Kilmeny cut the string that tied the sack. He drew out a heavy valise so full that it gaped. Silver and gold coins, as well as bills, filled it to the mouth. They had found the money stolen from the treasurer of the Gunnison County Fair association.

  All three of them were sick at heart. Jack Kilmeny then was guilty, after all. The message in the hat had not been intended for them, but had been merely a note of identification of the spot. He had taken the captain's hat merely because he did not want the officers to find the directions under the sweat pad. He had in essence lied to Moya and to the cousins who had offered to stand shoulder to shoulder with him in his trouble.

  To Moya the next hour was a nightmare. They returned to the Lodge and slipped into the house by way of a French window opening upon the deserted north porch. Kilmeny hid the sack of treasure in his trunk and divested himself of his fishing clothes. Presently he joined Moya and his sister on the front porch, where shortly they were discovered by Verinder in search of a fourth at bridge.

  India, knowing how greatly her friend was shaken, volunteered to fill the table and maneuvered Verinder back into the living-room with her. The millionaire had vaguely the sense of a conspiracy against him and resented it, even though of late he had been veering from Moya to Joyce in his attentions.

  Captain Kilmeny, left alone with the girl of his dreams, wisely said nothing. He was himself indignant, his family pride stung to the quick. His cousin was not only a thief but a liar. Born of a race of soldiers, with the traditions of family and of the army back of him for generations, the latter offense was the greater of the two. He understood something of how Miss Dwight felt. She had let herself become greatly interested in this vagabond cousin of his. Openly she had championed his cause. Now her feelings were wounded, her pride hurt, and her anger ablaze. The fellow's offense against her had been flagrant.

  So far the captain had guessed correctly. Moya writhed like a bruised woodland creature. Her friendship had been abused. She had been as credulous as a simple country wench, while he no doubt had been laughing up his sleeve at her all the time. No longer had she any doubt as to his guilt. She visualized the hurried run for safety to camp, the swift disposal of the treasure in the river because of the close pursuit. When she lived over again that scene on Sunbeam the girl flogged her soul like a penitent. As one grinds defiantly on an ulcerated tooth, so she crushed her pride and dragged it in the dust.

  But the wound was deeper even than this. To give herself in friendship impulsively was her temperament, though not many were judged worthy of such giving. This blue-eyed scamp had won her as no man ever had before. She had seen him through a glamour. Now his character stood stripped in its meanness. Her sweet trust was crushed. In the reaction that was upon her she craved rest and safety. No longer had she any confidence in her own judgment. Against the advice of her friends she had been wayward and headstrong, so sure that she knew best.

  Kilmeny, sitting beside her in the deep shadows cast by the wild cucumber vines, became aware that she was weeping silently. His heart bled for her. He had known her always buoyant, gallant as Galahad, vibrant of joy to the finger tips.

  "I say, don't," he pleaded. It was impossible for him to voice adequately his feelings. Greatly daring, he let an arm rest across the shoulders that were being racked by suppressed pianissimo sobs.

  "You mustn't, you know. I can't stand it." And, again, "Please don't."

  She gulped down the lump in her throat and turned upon him filmy eyes, the lashes of which were tangled with tears. This fine strong soldier represented the haven of rest toward which she was being driven. Had she never met his American cousin she knew that she would probably have accepted him in the end. The swift impulse swept her to anchor her craft for life in a safe harbor. She had tried rebellion, and that had left her spent and beaten. What she wanted now was safety, a rest from the turmoil of emotion.

  "Do you still ... want me?" she asked lifelessly.

  He could not on the instant take her meaning. Then, "Want you!" he cried in a low voice no words could have expressed fully. "Want you? Oh, my dear!"

  "You know I don't love you ... not in one way," she told him naïvely. "Lady Jim says that will come. I don't know. Perhaps you won't want to take the risk."

  She could see the desire of her leap to his honest eyes. "By God, I'll take my chance," he cried.

  "You'll give me all the time I want—not push me too hard?"

  "You shall set your own time."

  Her dusky head was leaning wearily against the back of a wicker porch chair. From sheer fatigue her eyes fluttered shut. Her lover could see the round bird-like throat swell as she swallowed the lump that had gathered. Pity for her and love of her rose in him like a flood. He would have given anything to wrap her in his arms and fight away her troubles. But he knew it would be months before he could win the right to do this.

  "Would you mind if ... if we didn't tell the others just yet?"

  "It shall be as you say, Moya, dear."

  She nodded languid thanks. "You're good. I ... I think I'll go to bed. I'm so tired."

  He kissed the tips of her fingers and she vanished round the corner of the house.

  Kilmeny sat down again and looked for long across the moonlit river. His sweetheart had promised to marry him, but in how strange a fashion. He was to be her husband some day, but he was not yet her lover by a good deal. His imagination fitted another man to that rôle, and there rose before him the strong brown face of his cousin with its mocking eyes and devil-may-care smile.

  His promised wife! He had despaired of winning her, and she had crept to him as a hurt child does to its mother. There was no exultation in his heart. Poor child! How sad and tired her eyes had been.

  * * *

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE BAD PENNY AGAIN

  Verinder strolled down to the river bank, where Joyce was fishing from the shore in a tentative fashion.

  "I say, Miss Seldon, aren't you breaking the Sabbath?" he asked from the bank above, smiling down upon her with an attempt at archness.

  She flashed at him over her shoulder a smile that had all the allure of lovely youth. "I'm only bending it. I haven't caught a single fish."

  "Bending it! Oh, I say, that's rather rippin', you know."

  She nodded her golden head. "Thanks."

  "Casting is a horrid bore. You should be a fisher of men," he told her fatuously.

  "If I could be sure I wouldn't catch one. But if I happened to, what would I do with him?"

&n
bsp; "Do with him! Why, it depends on who you catch. If he's undersize unhook him gently and throw him back into the river. What!"

  The gay smile, flashed sideways at him, was a challenge. "But it isn't always so easy to unhook them, I'm told."

  "Not if one doesn't want to."

  "You're telling me that I'm a flirt, aren't you?" she said suspiciously.

  "I can't tell you anything along that line you don't know already."

  "I've a good mind to get angry," she flung back, laughing.

  "Don't do that. If it would help I can tell you a lot of nice things I think about you. My word, yes!"

  Joyce shot one swift glance at him and saw that he was on the verge of waxing sentimental. That would never do. It was on the cards that she might have to marry Dobyans Verinder but she did not want him making love to her.

  "Please don't take the trouble. It's really a matter of no moment."

  The young woman made another cast.

  "To you."

  "I was thinking about me."

  "You usually are, aren't you?"

  She looked up with surprised amusement. Resentment had made him bold. This was the first spark of spirit she had shaken out of him and she had made him the victim of many moods.

  "But I don't blame you for thinking about the most interesting person you know. I think about you a lot myself. You're really rippin', you know."

  Joyce groaned in spirit. He did that sort of thing as gracefully as a bear danced. To create a diversion she whipped back her line for a cast so that the flies snapped close to his ear.

  "I say, be a bit careful," Verinder suggested.

  "Oh, did I hook you?" she asked carelessly.

  "I've been on your line for weeks."

  "You'd better whisper it. Moya might hear," she advised roguishly.

  Verinder flushed. The transfer of his attentions was still a sore subject with him. He hoped it would be generally understood that he had given up Miss Dwight of his own choice. He did not want it to get out that he had been jilted.

  "The whole world is welcome to hear it. I'd advertise it in the Times if it would do any good."

  "I believe you are impudent," laughed the beauty.

  "I know I'm imprudent."

  "Oh!" She carefully dropped her leader in the riffles. "There's no law keeping you in this neighborhood, you know. Try India for a change."

  "There's nothing to keep the trout on the line—except the hook."

  Her smile told of lazy but amiable derision. "It's a great pity about you."

  "Awf'ly glad you feel so. Some poet chap said that pity is akin to love."

  "I think it would do you good to take a long walk, Mr. Verinder."

  "With Miss Seldon?" he wanted to know cautiously.

  "Alone," she told him severely. "It would be a rest."

  "A rest for me—or for you?"

  The dimples flashed into her soft cheeks again. "For both of us, perhaps."

  "Thanks. It's rather jolly here." He put his hands in his trousers pockets and leaned against a tree.

  "Hope you'll enjoy it. I'm going to find Moya." Miss Seldon reeled up, put her rod against the tree, and sauntered off with the lissom grace that was hers.

  Verinder woke up. "Let me come too. On second thoughts I find I do need a walk."

  She looked back at him saucily over her shoulder. "You may come if you won't talk until you're spoken to."

  "Done, by Jove!"

  They followed the trail a stone's throw in silence.

  "Miss Dwight's always going off by herself. Seems to me she's a bit off her feed," Verinder suggested.

  Joyce was amused. For a man who wanted it understood that only one girl in the world mattered to him he still appeared to take a good deal of interest in Moya.

  "Seems dreamy and—er—depressed. What!" he continued.

  "Perhaps she is in love," Joyce let herself suggest wickedly.

  "I've thought of that, but 'pon my word! I can't think of a man."

  "Why not Mr. Verinder?"

  His eyeglass ogled her to make sure he was not being made game of, but the lovely face was very innocent.

  "Can't be," he demurred with conventional denial.

  "Captain Kilmeny, then."

  "Hardly. I don't think he's quite her style of man."

  "Perhaps with his cousin, the highwayman."

  "Good heavens, no!"

  She took on a look of horrified suspicion. "You don't think—surely it couldn't be—Oh, I do hope it isn't Lord Farquhar."

  He stared at her through his monocle with his mouth open, then discovered that he had been sold as the laughter rippled into her face.

  "Oh, I say! Jolly good one, that. Lord Farquhar, by Jove!" Yet his laughter rang flat. It always made him angry to find that they were "spoofing" him. He didn't like to be "got" in the beastly traps these girls were always laying for him.

  "There's Moya now—and there's a man with her," Joyce announced.

  "By Gad, it's the highwayman!" Verinder gasped.

  It was, though strictly speaking Jack Kilmeny was not yet with her, since she was still unaware of his presence. Moya was sitting on a mossy rock with a magazine in her hand, but she was not reading. By the look of her she was daydreaming, perhaps of the man who was moving noiselessly toward her over the bowlders.

  Before she heard him he was close upon her. She looked around, and with a little cry got to her feet and stared at him, her hand on her fast beating heart.

  Joyce waited to see no more.

  "No business of ours," she announced to Verinder, and, without regard to his curiosity or her own, turned heel and marshaled him from the field.

  "You!" Moya cried.

  Kilmeny bowed. "The bad penny turned up again, Miss Dwight."

  Scorn of him flashed in her dark eyes. She stood straight and rigid, but in spite of herself she breathed fast.

  "You've forgotten your promise. You've lost faith again," he charged.

  His impudence stirred contemptuous anger. "I know you now, sir," she told him with fine contempt.

  "And you promised to believe in me." He said it quietly, with just a touch of bitterness in the reproach of his wistful voice.

  The first hint of startled doubt came into her eyes. It was as if he had breathed into a marble statue the pulse of life. He had known her vivid as a thrush in song, a dainty creature of fire and dew. She stood now poised as it were on the edge of hope.

  "How could I believe when I found your guilt on you? What right have you to ask it?"

  "So you found the paper in the hat, did you?"

  "Yes."

  "Certain about my guilt this time, are you?"

  He said it almost with a sneer, but nothing could crush the resurgent glow in her heart. Against the perilous and emotional climax which was growing on her she set her will in vain. Why was it that the mere presence of this man called to her so potently and shook her confidence in his guilt?

  "We found the money," she explained, thinking to confound him.

  "I guessed that. It was gone when I went to look for it this morning. I've come for it now."

  His assurance amazed her. "Come for it!" she repeated. "It isn't here."

  "No, I didn't expect to find it in your purse. But it is at the Lodge."

  "No."

  "Where, then?"

  "I shan't tell you. The money will be returned to those from whom it was stolen."

  He looked at her with hard, narrowed eyes. "It will be returned, will it? When?"

  "To-day. Within a few hours."

  "Who is going to return it?"

  Moya had it on the tip of her tongue to tell, but pulled up in time. "I think we'll not go into that."

  The American looked at his watch. The hands showed the hour to be 2:30. If the money was to be returned that day someone must already be on the way with it. He had seen his cousin, Captain Kilmeny, take the Gunnison road in a trap not half an hour earlier.

  "So the captain is taking it ba
ck to-day?" he mused aloud, wary eyes on Moya's face.

  A startled expression leaped to her countenance. She had told more than she had intended. "I didn't say so."

  "I say so."

  Beneath his steady gaze her lashes fell. He nodded, sure that he had guessed correctly.

  "I intended to have a talk with you and straighten out some things," he went on. "But I find I haven't time now. We'll postpone it till to-morrow. I'll meet you here at ten o'clock in the morning."

  "No," she told him.

  The wave of hope had ebbed in her. Given the opportunity to explain the evidence against him, he had cared more to find out what they were doing with the stolen money. He had no time to save his good name.

  "Ten in the morning. Remember. It's important. I want to see you alone. If I'm not on time wait for me."

  That was his last word. He bowed, turned away almost at a run, and was lost in the small willows. Presently she heard the sound of a galloping horse. A minute later she caught a glimpse of it disappearing up Red Rock cañon. He was following the cutoff trail that led to Gunnison.

  She wondered what was taking him away so abruptly. He had meant to stop, then had changed his mind. He had told her calmly she must meet him here to-morrow, and if he were late for the appointment she must wait. His impudence was enough to stagger belief. She would show him about that. If he wanted to see her he must come to the Lodge and face Lady Jim. Even then she would not see him. Why should she, since he was what he was?

  Ah, but that was the crux of the whole matter! To look at him was to feel that whatever his faults they were not despicable ones. He was alive, so very much alive, and the look of him was that which an honest man should have. Had he proved his innocence and been released? Or had he broken prison, an alternative of which he was quite capable? And, guilty or innocent, what could be the explanation of his extraordinary demand that she should turn over to him the stolen money?

  He had found her dumb and stricken with many hours of brooding over his guilt. At least he left her quick with questionings. She divined again the hint of a mystery. Something deeper than reason told her that the unraveling of it would prove him no villain.