Annabel smiled. “He thinks by mid-summer he can take me right into the interior, in that cranky red car. And I don't know but what I am ready to risk it; there are places I'd like to see—where he was caught his first winter in a blizzard, and where he picked up the nuggets for my necklace. You remember it—don't you?—Mrs. Daniels. I wore it that night in Seattle we went to hear Carmen.”
“I certainly do remember. It was the most wonderful thing in the theater that night, and fit for an empress.” Involuntarily Geraldine glanced down at her own solitary jewel. It flashed a lovely blue light as she moved her hand.
Annabel followed the glance. “Your ring is a beauty,” she said. “Not many young men, just starting in business for themselves, would have thought they could afford a diamond like that.”
Geraldine laughed, flushing a little. “It seems the finest in the world to me,” she replied almost shyly. “And it ought to show higher light and color than any other; the way it was bought was so splendid.”
“Do you mean the way the money was earned to buy it?” inquired Annabel.
Geraldine nodded. “It was the price, exactly, of his first magazine story. Perhaps you read it. It was published in the March issue of Sampson's, and the editors liked it so well they asked to see more of his work.”
Jimmie looked at his wife in mingled protest and surprise. He had believed she, as well as himself, had wished to have that story quickly forgotten. “It is an Indian story,” she pursued; “about a poor little papoose that was accidentally killed. It was a personal experience of Mr. Tisdale's.”
Mrs. Banks had not read it, but the prospector pushed aside his sherbet glass and, laying his arms on the table, leaned towards Geraldine. “Was that papoose cached under a log?” he asked softly. “And was its mother berrying with a bunch of squaws up the ridge?”
“Yes,” smiled Geraldine. “I see you have read it.”
“No, but I heard a couple of men size it up aboard the train coming from Scenic Hot Springs. And once,” he went on with gathering tenseness, “clear up the Tanana, I heard Dave and Hollis talking it over. My, yes, it seems like I can see them now; they was the huskiest, cleanest-cut, openest-faced team that ever mushed a trail. It was one of those nights when the stars come close and friendly, and the camp-fire blazes and crackles straight to heaven and sets a man thinking; and Tisdale started it by saying if he could cut one record out of his past he guessed the rest could bear daylight. Then Dave told him he was ready to stand by that one, too. And Hollis said it was knowing that had taken the edge off, but it hadn't put the breath back into that papoose. Of course he never suspicioned for a minute the kid was in the road when he jumped that log, and the heart went out of him when he picked it up and saw what he was responsible for. They had to tell me the whole story, and I wish you could have heard 'em. Dave smoothing things when Hollis got too hard on himself, and Hollis chipping in again for fear I wouldn't get full weight for Dave's part. And the story sure enough does hinge on him. Likely that's why Tisdale gave it to your magazine; to show up Dave Weatherbee. But those men on the train—they had the seat in front of me so's I heard it plain—lost their bearings. They left out Dave and put Hollis in a bad light. He was 'caught red-handed and never was brought to an honest trial.' And it was clear besides, being 'hand in glove with the Secretary of the Interior' he had a 'pull with the Federal court.' I couldn't stand for it.” The prospector's voice reached high pitch, his forehead creased in many fine lines, his eyes scintillated their blue glacier lights, and he added, striking the table with his clenched hand, “I up and says: 'It's all a damn lie.'“
There was a silence. The self-possession and swiftness of the Japanese boy saved the sherbet glass and its contents, but the mayor, who had been interrupted in a confidential quotation of real estate values to Miss Morganstein, sat staring at Banks in amazement. A spark of admiration shot through the astonishment in Annabel's eyes then, catching the little man's aggressive glance, she covered her pride with her ironical smile. Mrs. Weatherbee was the only one who did not look at Banks. Her inscrutable face was turned to the valley. She might never have heard of Hollis Tisdale or, indeed, of David. But Elizabeth, who had kept the thread of both conversations, said: “You were right. There was a coroner's inquest that vindicated Mr. Tisdale at the time.”
“But,” explained Geraldine courageously, “that was left out of the magazine. Mr. Daniels took it all accurately, just as Mr. Tisdale told it, word for word; but the story was cut terribly. Nothing at all was said of Mr. Weatherbee's part. We couldn't understand that, for with names suppressed, there could be no motive, and he was so clearly the leading character. But magazines have no conscience. It's anything, with the new ones at least, to catch the public eye, and they stir more melodrama into their truths than the yellow journals do. But Mr. Daniels apologized to Mr. Tisdale, and explained how he wasn't responsible for the editor's note or for printing his name, and he did his best to make it up in his report of the disaster at Cascade tunnel. That story went into the Press straight and has been widely copied.”
It was in Jimmie's favor that Lucky Banks had read the newspaper story, and also that they had had those hours of intimacy at the west portal. “Well, likely you ain't to blame,” the prospector admitted finally, “but there's people who don't know Hollis Tisdale that might believe what the magazine says. And, if I was you, I'd take a little run over to Washington or New York, wherever it is—I'll put up the money—and locate that editor. I'd make him fix it right, my, yes.”
“I should be glad to,” said Daniels, brightening, “but it's possible those missing pages were lost on the way.”
“Well, I'd find out,” persisted Banks. “And there's other stories I got wind of when I was in Washington, D.C., and Seattle, too, last time I was down, that ought to be trailed. Maybe it's just politics, but I know for a fact they ain't so.”
The irony had gone out of Annabel's face. She had seen Hollis Tisdale but once, yet his coming and going had marked the red-letter day of her life. Her heart championed Banks' fight for him. She turned her dark eyes from him to Daniels.
“It's too bad you tried to tell Hollis Tisdale's story for him,” she said. “Even if the magazine had got it all straight, it wouldn't have been the same as getting it first hand. It's like listening to one of those fine singers in a phonograph; you can get the tune and some of the words, and maybe the voice pretty fair, but you miss the man.”
With this she rose. “We are ready to go out to the Orchards, Mr. Bailey. Mr. Banks and I are going to change places with the bride and groom.” Then from her silk bag, she brought forth a bunch of keys which she gave to Geraldine. “Nukui is going to stay to clear away,” she explained, “and bring our car home. And when you have finished making your plans, and want to go down to see the newspaper office, he will show you a nice short cut through the park.”
So again the mayor's chocolate six-passenger car threaded the park and emerged this time on a straight, broad thoroughfare through Hesperides Vale. “This,” said Bailey, turning from the town, “is the Alameda. They motor from Wenatchee and beyond to try it. It's a pretty good road, but in a year or two, when these shade trees come into full leaf, it will be something to show.”
There were tufts on most of them now and on the young fruit trees that ran in geometrical designs on either side, covering the levels that last year had been overgrown with sage. As these infant orchards dropped behind and the Wenatchee range loomed near, Cerberus detached from the other peaks; but it was no longer a tawny monster on guard; its contour was broken by many terraces, luxuriant with alfalfa and planted with trees.
“Why,” exclaimed Mrs. Weatherbee, “there is the gap. Then, this must be the mountain—it reminded me once of a terrible, crouching, wild beast— but it has changed.”
“Yes, ma'am,” responded Banks, “she's looking tamer now. The peaches have taken right hold, and those fillers of strawberries are hurrying on the green. But you give 'em three years or maybe
four, and take 'em in blossom time,—my, you won't know this old mountain then.”
A drive, cross-cutting the bold front, led to the level beneath the summit, where rose the white walls and green gables of Annabel's home, but they rounded the mountain into the smaller vale. “This,” said the mayor, with culminating pride, “is Weatherbee Orchards. It shows what money, in the right hands, can do.”
A soft breeze came down over the ridge as they ascended; the flume, that followed the contour of the roadway, gurgled pleasantly. Everywhere along the spillways alfalfa spread thriftily, or strawberry plants sent out new tendrils. All growing things were more advanced in that walled pocket than in the outer vale; the arid gulf had become a vast greenhouse. Cerberus no longer menaced. Even the habitation of the goat-woman, that had been the central distraction of the melancholy picture, was obliterated. In all that charming landscape there was no discordant note to break the harmony.
The car doubled the curve at the top of the bench and ran smoothly between breadths of green lawn, bordered by nodding narcissus, towards the house, which was long and low, with a tiled roof and cream-colored walls that enclosed a patio. A silence fell over the company. As they alighted, every one waited, looking expectantly at Beatriz Weatherbee. The music of a fountain fluted from the court, and she went forward, listening. Her face was no longer inscrutable; it shone with a kind of inner illumination. But when she saw the slender column of spray and the sparkling basin, with a few semi-tropical plants grouped on the curb, a cactus, a feathery palm in a quaint stone pot, she turned, and her eyes sought Elizabeth's. “It is all like the old hacienda where grandfather was born, and mother, and”— her voice broke—“Only that had adobe walls,” she finished. “It is like— coming home.”
“It is simply marvelous,” replied Elizabeth, and she added abruptly, looking at the prospector: “Mr. Banks, you are a problem beyond me.”
“It looks all right, doesn't it?” the little man beamed. “Likely it would about suit Dave. And I was able to stand the investment. My, yes, now your brother has bought out the Annabel, what I spent wouldn't cut any figure. But,” and his glance moved to the woman who had profited by the venture, “I'll likely get my money back.”
Afterwards, when the party had inspected the reservoirs and upper flumes, Beatriz found herself returning to the bench with Lucky Banks. It was almost sunset, and the far Chelan peaks were touched with Alpine fire; below them an amethyst mist filtered over the transformed vale. They had been discussing the architecture of the building.
“I had often gone over the map of the project with David,” she said, “but he must have drawn the plans of the house later, in Alaska. It was a complete surprise. I wonder he remembered the old hacienda so accurately; he was there only once—when we were on our wedding journey.”
“There were a few measurements that had to be looked up,” admitted Banks; “but I took a little run around into lower California last winter, on my way home from Washington, D.C.”
“You were there? You troubled to go all the way to the old rancheria for details?”
“Yes, ma'am. It was a mighty good grazing country down there, but the people who bought the place were making their money out of one of those fine hotels; it was put up alongside a bunch of hot springs. Nobody but a couple of Mexicans was living in the old house. It was in bad shape.”
“I know. I know. If I had been a man, it would have been different. I should have restored it; I should have worked, fought to buy back every acre. But you saw old Jacinta and Carlos? It was recorded in the title they should be allowed to stay there and have the use of the old home garden as long as they lived. My mother insisted on that.”
They had reached the level and walked on by the house towards the solitary pine tree on the rim of the bench. After a moment he said: “Now Dave's project is running in good shape, there isn't much left for me to do, my, no, except see the statue set up in the park.”
“I wanted to ask you about that, Mr. Banks; we passed the place on the way to the bungalow. It was beautiful. I presume you have selected a woman's figure—a lovely Ceres or Aphrodite?”
“No, ma'am,” responded Banks a little sharply. “It's a full-sized man. Full-sized and some over, what the sculptor who made it calls heroic; and it's a good likeness of Dave Weatherbee.”
They had reached the pine tree, and she put out her hand to steady herself on the bole. “I understand,” she said slowly. “It was a beautiful— tribute.”
“It looks pretty nice,” corroborated the prospector. “There was a mighty good photograph of Dave a young fellow on a Yukon steamer gave me once, to go by. He was standing on a low bluff, with his head up, looking off like a young elk, when the boat pulled out, and the camera man snapped him. It was the day we quit the partner lay, and I was going down-stream, and he was starting for the headwaters of the Susitna. Tisdale told me about a man who had done first-class work in New York, and I sent that picture with a check for a starter on my order. I wrote him the price wasn't cutting any figure with me; what I wanted was the best he could do and to have it delivered by the fifteenth of March. And he did; he had it done on time; and he said it was his best work. It's waiting down in Weatherbee now. Hollis thought likely I better leave it to you whether to have the burying with the statue down in the park, or up here, somewhere, on Dave's own ground.”
“Do you mean,” she asked, and her voice almost failed, “you have brought— David—home?”
Banks nodded. “It was cold for him wintering up there in the Alaska snow.”
“Oh, I know. I've thought about—that. I should have done—as you have— had I been able.”
After a moment she said: “What is there I can say to you? I did not know there were such men in the world until I knew you and Hollis Tisdale. Of course you believed, as he did, that I was necessary to round out David's project. That is why, when it was successfully completed, you forfeited the bonus and all the investment. I may never be able to fully refund you but—shall do my best. And this other—too. Mr. Banks, was that Mr. Tisdale's suggestion? Did he share that—expense—with you?”
“No, ma'am, he let me have that chance when we talked it over. I had to get even with him on the project.”
“Even with him on the project?”
“Yes, ma'am. He let me put up the money, but it's got to be paid back out of Dave's half interest in the Aurora mine. And likely, likely, that's what Dave Weatherbee would have wanted done.”
CHAPTER XXX. THE JUNIOR DEFENDANT
It was following a recess during the third afternoon of the trial; a jury had at last been impanelled, the attorney for the prosecution and the leading lawyer for the defense had measured swords, when Stuart Foster, the junior defendant in the “Conspiracy to Defraud the Government,” was called to the stand. Frederic Morganstein, the head of the Prince William Development Company, straightened in his seat beside the vacated chair. He was sleekly groomed, and his folded, pinkish white hands suggested a good child's; his blank face assumed an expression of mildly protesting innocence. But the man who stepped from his shadow into the strong light of the south windows was plainly harassed and worn. His boyishness was gone; he seemed to have aged years since that evening in September when he had sailed for Alaska. Tisdale's great heart stirred, then his clear mind began to tally the rapid fire of questions and Foster's replies.
“When were you first connected with the Prince William Development Company, Mr. Foster?”
“In the summer of 1904.”
“You were then engaged in the capacity of mining engineer at a fixed salary, were you not?” The prosecuting attorney had a disconcerting manner of arching his brows. His mouth, taken in connection with his strong, square jaw, had the effect of closing on his questions like a trap.
“Yes,” Foster answered briefly, “I was to receive two hundred and fifty dollars a month the first year, and its equivalent in the company's stock.”
“Did you not, at the same time, turn over to the c
ompany your interests in the Chugach Railway and Development Company?”
“Yes,” said Foster.
“And was not this railroad built for the purpose of opening certain coal lands in the Matanuska region, in which you held an interest?”
“Yes, I had entered a coal claim of one hundred and sixty acres.”
“All the law allowed to an individual; but, Mr. Foster, did you not induce others, as many as thirty persons, to locate adjoining claims with the idea that the entire group would come under one control?”
Foster colored. “It was necessary to co-operate,” he said slowly, “in order to meet the enormous expense of development and transportation. We wished to build a narrow-gauge road—it was then in course of construction—but the survey was through the Chugach Mountains, the most rugged in North America. The cost of moving material, after it was shipped from the States, was almost prohibitive; ordinary labor commanded higher wages than are paid skilled mechanics here in Seattle.”
“Mr. Foster, were not those coal claims located with a purpose to dispose of them in a group at a profit?”
“No, sir. I have told you on account of the great expense of development it was necessary to work together; it was also necessary that as many claims as possible should be taken.”
The prosecution, nodding affirmatively, looked at the jury. “The more cunning and subtle the disguise,” he said, “the more sure we may be of the evasion of the law. So, Mr. Foster, you promoted an interest in the fields, selected claims for men who never saw them; used their power of attorney?”
“Yes. That was in accordance with the law then in force. We paid for our coal claims, the required ten dollars an acre. The land office accepted our money, eighty thousand dollars. Then the President suspended the law, and we never received our patents. About that time the Chugach forest reserve was made, and we were hampered by all sorts of impossible conditions. Some of us were financially ruined. One of the first locators spent one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, his whole fortune, in development. He opened his mine and had several tons of coal carried by packers through the mountains to the coast, to be shipped to Seattle, to be tested on one of the Government cruisers. The report was so favorable it encouraged the rest of us to stay with the venture.”
The Rim of the Desert Page 33
