by Max Brand
That eventuality began to loom large when he learned, through a leak in the district attorney’s office, that they were having difficulty in making up their case. The state could show that the bloodhounds had followed a trail during an entire night, but that they might not have crossed scents, could not be proven. Neither could they prove that during the night the rider of that horse might not have dismounted and another taken his place.
And other things troubled them. In the first place, it was strange that the money had not been found on the person of Tom, if he were indeed the White Mask, who had blown the safe. He had been hunted with sufficient closeness to keep him from finding a secure place of hiding for it. He could only have disposed of it, they felt, by having a confederate in wait for him during the night. That confederate might have changed horses with him. In fact, that confederate might be Tom Keene.
There were people who, during the past years, had seen the White Mask at close hand during the commission of his crimes, and they one and all swore that he seemed inches shorter than the Tom Keene who they saw in the prison. More vital than this, they declared that the voices were different. The enormous voice of Tom Keene was a striking one and not hard to distinguish, but the voice of the White Mask—and they had heard him shout more than once—while it could not have been easily distinguished from the voices of a thousand other men, was at least not at all like that of Tom.
If this had been the testimony of one or two, it would not have been so bad. But half a dozen came forward and volunteered their knowledge. To say the least, it would be puzzling for a jury.
With such information as this to work upon, Charlie Whitney would have had no trouble in working up a story good enough to pass muster and at least hang the verdict of the twelve good men and true—if he could only get Tom Keene to agree to a reasonable story of why he mounted that horse.
The story that Charlie Whitney wanted him to tell was by no means reduced to words; it was only a desire to frame a good-sounding lie. But Tom Keene would not listen to his arguments. Instead, he persisted in vowing that he would tell to the jury a story of how he took the place of the White Mask on purpose and out of the sheer goodness of his heart. It was disgusting to Charlie Whitney to hear that tale.
He went to the jail today for a double purpose. In the first place, he wanted to tell Tom that the trial would have to commence the next day. In the second place, he had to tell him that he had conveyed to John Carver the message requesting him to be present in the jail that day. Indeed, at the door of the jail he found Carver and the sheriff awaiting him. All three went in to the prisoner together.
But just before he opened the inner door, the sheriff asked impulsively, “Whitney, what d’you really think? Is your man going to get off with a free skin?”
“I’ll tell you what, pal,” said the confidential Whitney, “he’s either the greatest bluffing crook in the world, or else he’s a simp. I dunno which.”
“And how about you, Carver?” asked the sheriff. “You look sort of pale. Put you off your feed to think of meeting up with him? Anyway, hang onto that bulldog temper of yours. It don’t pay to fight a man behind the bars.”
Carver nodded. He was a far different man from him who had ridden over the hill a month before and exchanged shots with Tom Keene. His hair and mustache were neatly trimmed. His eye was clear. His face was filled, though a little pale. He was, moreover, well-dressed in a new suit of clothes, and his arm, which was still incapacitated for work, was hanging in a sling. Altogether, he made an impressively respectable appearance.
“I don’t bear any malice,” he assured the sheriff gracefully. “Matter of fact, what would any other man do if he was riding from bloodhounds, and a gent with a gun come across his path? Why, he’d shoot, that’s all. And I just happened to be on the receiving end of the slug. I ain’t whining about what’s happened.”
“But why d’you imagine that he’s so set on seeing you?”
“I suppose,” said John Carver, “that he wants to tell me he’s sorry for what’s happened. I dunno what else.”
And with that, they passed into the corridor that led past the cells. There was no one else confined. And Tom Keene rose at once from his cot where he was seated and hurried to the bars of his cell. The sheriff unlocked the door, and they all entered. It would never have occurred to him to bring the man into his office.
The Tom Keene who they faced now had altered even more greatly than John Carver in the month since his arrest. But, whereas every change in Carver had been for the better, every change in Tom had been for the worse. His cheeks were hollowed. His forehead creased with a deep, perpetual frown. And in every step and gesture he showed a nervousness that had been eating into his peace of mind like an acid.
Shadows of the walls of a prison, indeed, leave a stain where they fall, and never had they struck a more susceptible subject than Tom. He was accustomed to a freedom as great as the freedom of birds, and the constraint was a mortal poison to him.
As they entered, they could see that he was shaking with eagerness while he gave back before them. And, while the sheriff turned and relocked the door, the gaze of Tom was fixed steadily, burningly upon John Carver.
At length, before any of the three could speak, he blurted out, “Carver, I asked you to come down by yourself and see me alone.”
Charlie Whitney glanced curiously from one to the other. And he was surprised to see that John Carver had found his way to the farthest corner, and that his hand, moreover, was thrust suspiciously deep in his coat pocket.
“I tried to come down,” Carver said faintly. “I tried to come down and find out what you wanted, Keene, because I’m not holding any grudge against you. But they won’t let people come in to see you without a witness. Ain’t that the way of it, Sheriff?”
“Of course,” the sheriff responded. “Got to have witnesses, friend, as you ought to know. First day I let in Missus Carver, but that was all extra.”
“Extra,” Tom Keene said grimly. “All extra, eh? Well, gents, I got an idea that what you’re going to hear now will be a little extra, too.”
He turned sharply on John Carver who, it seemed to the watchful Charlie Whitney, shrank from him in an odd fashion. And the hand fumbled at something in his coat pocket.
“Look here, Sheriff,” Whitney said. “D’you let people come into your jail carrying their guns?”
“Guns?” asked the sheriff.
“Guns!” insisted Charlie. “Just drop your hand in the coat pocket of my friend yonder.”
A savage glare came into the eyes that John Carver turned upon the attorney, a glance so deadly that the man from Manhattan blinked. He had seen more than one yegg and man-killer glare like that in a courtroom.
“I didn’t think that there’d be any harm in bringing along a gun,” said John Carver, apologizing to the sheriff as the latter approached him. “Besides, you couldn’t ask me to stay in the cell here with him, without a gun. I’ve seen what he’d do once, and I ain’t going to take any more chances when I’ve got a bad arm. Ain’t that logic?”
“Logic, sure,” said the sheriff, “but poor sense. Gimme your gun.”
He took it and stepped back. The center of interest had shifted suddenly to Carver.
“Carver,” Tom Keene said, “the thing I’m going to say, I’ve been holding off with a long time. I don’t want to say it now. You know what it is. But first I want to know why Mary or her mother ain’t been in? Have you ordered ’em away from the jail?”
Carver saw that the crisis had come, and that he must brave his way out. So he openly sneered and then managed a laugh as he turned to the others. “This gent is sure nutty,” he declared. “Does he think my wife and my little girl are going to come in and hang on his neck after he’s drove a slug through me?”
“Why, curse you …” began Tom Keene. But as quickly as he had lost control of himself, he re
gained it. He struck his hand across his forehead heavily and then cried, “I ain’t given up hope yet! I’ve put my trust in him, and I’ll keep it to the last gasp. But, Carver, you see where I am. For your sake, I’ve backed myself right up against the walls of the penitentiary, and now I’ve either got to tell the truth or else go to prison in your place. Carver, I give you a last chance. Will you do what you can for me, or do I have to say what I know?”
Carver, sickly white though still sneering, assumed an attitude of careless defiance, but he was a poor actor at that moment.
“Then,” Tom cried, “it’s on your own head! I’ve tried patience, and I’ve tried suffering, until it looks like you’re trying to shift the whole load over onto my shoulders. And now, Carver, you’ll take what’s coming.”
And Tom Keene launched into the tale of their meeting, beginning with his walk into the mountains, his return, the encounter on the hillside, the fall of John Carver, and then the strange bargain that he had struck with the robber. And he concluded, “I’d a pile rather have had a couple of slugs of lead drove through me than to say this, Sheriff. But if I didn’t tell you the truth now, it’d come out sooner or later and blast the lives of his wife and his little girl. But …” He paused, for a faint chuckle was heard.
It came from the lips of his own attorney. The sheriff joined in, and last of all Carver himself. They uttered a mighty, ringing laugh. It seemed that their mirth was inextinguishable. Amazed, confused, he looked from one to the other for an explanation, but, without a return of a word, he saw them leave the cell, staggering with their laughter still, and heard the lock turned. Only his lawyer remained. The other two went off, the sheriff leaning on the shoulder of John Carver, the real White Mask.
Charlie Whitney spoke at length, wiping the tears from his eyes, “What d’you aim to gain by telling a yarn like that, bo? Going to work the crazy stuff? It can’t be done. This is too far West to pull the insanity gag, I tell you. Keene, you’ve only spoiled your game.”
“What do you mean?” breathed Tom.
“Mean? Why, it simply means that unless you change your story you go to …”
“But I can’t change it! Good Lord, man, don’t you see that it’s true?”
“True? That stuff about shooting a man off his horse and then taking his place? True? Say, bo, what d’you take me for? A simp?”
“Then what does …?”
“It means the pen for you, Tom. That’s what it means, unless you change your yarn. But, now that they have this cock-and-bull story of yours, they could wreck our case even if we had a good one. So start thinking, son. Start thinking, or you’ll be traveling for the big house. The cell is waiting.”
Tom Keene staggered back until his head and broad shoulders crashed against the wall. “They can’t put me in the penitentiary!” he thundered suddenly.
“No? Wait and see, Tom. Wait and see. Why can’t they put you in?”
“Because,” thundered Tom, “the Lord won’t let ’em!”
His attorney started to laugh again, but perceived that Tom was serious, and changed his mind. He began to back down the corridor with a scared look. And when at the end of the hall he came to the door, he waited there an instant with a gasp of rather horrified astonishment, for there was a jarring sound from the cell, and he saw that Tom had dropped upon his knees and lifted his face and his hands to the stone ceiling above him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The smile of Warden Tufter was like a ray of sunshine as he greeted his visitor. He would gladly have consigned her to the region of the outer darkness, but the early schooling that he had received as a machine politician was not lost on him. He was known to have a fist as hard as his heart; he could gather his brows until they beetled in a sort of frozen thunder at an offender; he could scare one of his prisoners into a confession in five minutes of silent treatment. But, though he felt like grinding his teeth and snarling at the young lady who sat jabbing a parasol end in a businesslike manner at the pattern on the carpet of his office, he managed to convert his anger into rather explosive cordiality.
There was, of course, a reason for his maneuvering. Women, the year before, had been granted the privilege of voting in that state, and the young lady in the blue hat and the black feather was the daughter of one of its most influential political matrons. Consequently when, as the head of a committee, she came to visit the prison and examine the complaints that occasionally drifted to the public’s ear in spite of the thickness of the walls of the prison, the warden had to take heed of himself. He even received from the lieutenant governor a stern admonition to act his best; in fact, that official made a side trip to the prison to prepare the way for the young Miss Ashton. He told the warden in short, curt phrases that Miss Ashton, through her mother’s influence, carried some twenty-five thousand votes in the palm of her little gloved hand, and on the result of this visit depended, to a great degree, the side of the scale into which those heavy votes would be dropped. Mrs. Ashton had heard ugly things about the prison—very ugly things—and she was sending her daughter to make sure.
“All because,” said the lieutenant governor, “you send your men out of this place in such shape that they raise the devil and try to break into print as soon as they can. Now, in other states that I know of, the crooks would rather lose a leg than appear in a newspaper criticizing the treatment they received in prison, because they could not tell when they would be back in that same prison and have to look that same warden in the eye. This has to be changed, Tufter, and today is the time to do the changing. This Ashton girl has to go out of the prison thinking that everything is so comfortable here that she’d almost like to move in for the summer. You understand?”
The warden made a wry face, but he nodded. He knew that his own political life was hanging by a thread, and that a sword was poised to sever it. The bad opinion of Miss Ashton would be the vital touch of the sword edge. The good opinion of Miss Ashton would convert his precarious position into a place bastioned with impregnable granite. No wonder, therefore, that he was able to smile upon this young lady.
Forty-eight hours before, the prison had thrilled with a sense of change. Even the lifers lifted their heads, and a fire lighted in their eyes as they caught the electric current of the rumor. That rumor could be traced to no source, but it spread wildfire fashion despite walls three feet thick. The exact nature of the rumor was hard to determine, but it was simply a vague report that better times were coming. Moreover, there was a visible and tangible evidence of the change. It came in the form of a cessation of punishments. It came, above all, in greater liberty and in a big improvement of food. The sick ward was suddenly furbished until it shone again. The dark cells were opened and aired and then bolted—with rusty locks. A white spirit of tenderness and mercy seemed to have occupied the relentless bosom of the warden.
And all of this was for the benefit of Miss Ashton. Had they known that the alteration, a matter of a day only, was for the benefit of this girl scarcely entered upon her twenties, how they would have cursed, those hard-faced criminals who were housed under Tufter’s regime. But, sitting in a shaft of sunshine that streamed through the wide windows of the warden’s office, Miss Ashton looked into the bright, good-natured eyes and the ruddy cheeks of the warden with a feeling that she must have been misinformed. And yet there was a shadowy premonition of evil, so to speak, that dwelt around him and behind him. It was an emotion that was aroused in her by intuition, rather than by anything that she had actually seen. And, when the warden put her to the test with a blunt question, she answered full as bluntly. As a matter of fact, he was too smugly self-satisfied at the end of the tour of inspection. He felt that he had handled fire and laid it aside unburned, so he said cheerfully, “Well, Miss Ashton, what do you think of things up here?”
“Do you really care to know what I am going to tell those who sent me?”
“Of course,” the warden said
heartily, “of course. My dear Miss Ashton, now that the women of the state have the vote … and high time indeed that they should have it … they should look a little more closely into the workings of the mechanism of society. This, I suppose, may be called the darker side, eh? Well, dark as it is, I hope that there are some bits of sunshine in my prison.” As he spoke, he tilted back his chair so that the sunlight from the window behind him flared and burned across his face and head.
“There are bits of sunshine breaking through, yes,” the girl said thoughtfully, and she looked down to the carpet and prodded the pattern again with her parasol end. For she had the feeling that, so long as she looked into the eyes of this cheerful fellow, she could never penetrate to any hidden truth. There was something about him that gathered all of her attention and focused it upon himself like a burning glass. All during her trip of inspection, she felt that she had been seeing Warden Tufter, not his prison. “There are bits of sunshine,” she repeated, “but I shall tell those who sent me that I was unable to estimate the importance of what I saw, and that they had better send up an investigating committee of older women.”
The floor of the warden’s happiness was rent open before him. He felt himself on the verge of ruin. A committee of older women. There was summoned before him a group picture of middle-aged women, their faces squared, the tenderer mists of youth quite vanished from their gleaming eyes, their hands heavier, their fingers blunter of tip, their jaws squared. Such a committee sent to investigate? They would read his secrets stamped in great letters upon his very brow. A committee of fat politicians was one thing. The unofficial visit of this pretty girl had been far more difficult. But a committee of middle-aged women—it was indubitable ruin.
“They’ll be welcome,” he found himself saying in a lifeless voice. “I wish that the whole world could be invited in to see this prison. I am not ashamed of it. I am proud of it. It is, in a way, my life’s work.”
