As Bannister paused, the silence was so intense that a pin could have been heard if dropped in the street. Cromer’s face had turned a sickly green.
“Now, people,” Bannister continued, “you have come here to make your homes, many of you, and you have invested money. There are many others who live in this state who have invested in the stock of this company. I represent a prominent stockholder at the present moment. After I have finished, I will represent no one. I have something to say to you, and a man to introduce to you . . . and your worries and troubles will be over. This project is not merely a company affair or a state affair. There is a government in these United States.”
As he paused a second time to let the force of his words sink in, Bannister looked tired and worn. The crowd noted this and strained their ears to catch what he might say next.
“You can think what you wish,” he went on, slowly, “but I am your friend. From now on the Marble Dome Land and Irrigation Company project will be under the supervision of the federal government. Everyone who needs water will have it. The work will be completed under the direction of capable engineers, many of whom must be here now, and there will be no more trouble. Now I am through, and I introduce to you Frank Browning of the Department of the Interior, with headquarters at Helena, who is taking charge.”
The stranger stepped forth. The crowd held its breath as it gazed at the strong face, the kindly eyes, the erect bearing of the representative of the government. Then suddenly, like a mighty explosion, the cheering broke forth. The very earth underneath seemed to shake with the roar of sound. Hats were thrown in the air and men threw their arms about each other. They cheered and cheered and cheered. Then they looked for Bannister. But Bannister had disappeared. He had played his trump card.
Chapter Thirty-Five
As Bannister left the balcony, he found Howard Marble in the hall. His look of pain, of resignation, of weariness after his long ride and train journey to get the government official and lay the facts before him, commingled with a gleam of triumph, caused the boy to hold his words.
Bannister took his hand. “Listen, Howard,” he said in a low voice, “I want you to say good bye for me to Florence. Don’t tell her what I’m about to say, whatever you do. But I am telling you, so you will understand, that anything I’ve done was done because I thought it was in her best interests. If I never see you again . . . so long.”
He left the youth staring after him with respect in his eyes.
* * * * *
Sheriff Campbell remained in Marble the rest of the day and that night. He saw Browning take charge of the affairs of the company, which were in a chaotic state. It was this fact, as Bannister had explained and Browning had suspected, that made it possible for the government to step in. The land buyers were jubilant. Where there had been hisses and doubts, there were cheers and confidence. John Macy, speaking for the cattlemen, said they would co-operate under the new conditions. The investments of all were safeguarded.
On the afternoon of the second day, Sheriff Campbell sat in his office. Deputy Van Note had just returned from a hurried trip to the state capital and Campbell was musing over the news he had brought. He had had a visitor that day who was now in the hotel. Florence Marble had learned everything from Howard. She had sent Manley to Prairie City to learn more. Then she had come herself.
The sheriff chewed his unlighted cigar in contented satisfaction. He was awaiting another visitor. He did not know if he would come this day or the next or the next, but he expected him sooner or later. He was not kept in this anticipatory frame of mind long. Bannister entered the office and nodded to him.
The official nodded in turn.
“Nice day,” drawled Bannister. “Want a light for that piece of rope?”
The sheriff removed his cigar and examined it critically. “No,” he said. “If I wanted it lit, I’d light it. You here on business or just dropped in for a personal call?”
“Both,” said Bannister. He took his gun from its holster and placed it on the desk before the sheriff. “It isn’t loaded,” he said quietly.
Campbell called to Van Note. “Go get that party at the hotel,” he ordered when the deputy came in.
“I’m glad I’m going to get an early start,” said Bannister. “And before I go down there, I want to say to you, Campbell, that you’re not so bad and I don’t hold anything against you. Savvy?”
“If I thought you held anything against me, I’d crack you with your own gun,” said Campbell with a heavy frown. “Here, take it, before I do it anyway.” He pushed the weapon toward Bannister.
Bannister looked at the gun, and then at the sheriff with wide, puzzled eyes. “Are you crazy?” he asked.
“Sometimes I think I am,” said Campbell whimsically. “I’ve been sheriff of this county a good many years . . . more than is good for me, I reckon. Yes, I suppose I’m crazy. Oh! Here we are.”
Bannister followed his gaze to the door and started.
There was Florence Marble. She looked at him with a soft, glad light in her eyes—a glow of pride.
“Hello, Bob Bannister,” she greeted.
But Bannister could only nod foolishly. What was this? What . . . ?
“Bannister”—it was the sheriff speaking—“I’ve gone into your record down south there and there’s more in your favor than against you, as I’ve told Miss Marble. We haven’t known you by the moniker they hung on you. We know you only as Bob Bannister. I sent Van Note to Helena to see the governor and I don’t think it will be necessary for you to take a trip south. I’m releasing you in the custody of Miss Florence Marble. Now take your gun and get out of here . . . I’ve got business to attend to and can’t be bothered.”
For some time Bannister looked into Florence Marble’s eyes. The world suddenly blossomed again with that wonderful light he had seen the morning of the storm. He turned to the sheriff and took his gun from the desk. Then he held out his hand.
“Sheriff,” he said, in a tone meant to convey a fierce meaning, “you’re an old fraud. I expected this very thing.”
The room glowed with the sunshine of his smile.
* * * * *
Bannister and Florence rode back to the Half Diamond in the gathering shades of the twilight. They spoke seldom. Florence appeared shy, and Bannister, too, had little to say. He learned that Tommy Gale had been hired to work on the ranch. He found out that Howard—the young devil!—hadn’t kept a thing to himself. The future appeared rosy both for farmers and stock-raisers.
Old Jeb took their horses, his grin extending from ear to ear. “I reckon we’ve got a new steady hand,” he said boisterously as Bannister scowled at him fiercely.
Howard was there, too, to greet them. He winked outrageously and also received a scowl.
Then Bannister and Florence were alone on the porch of the ranch house. The dusk had fallen and the stars were out. A breeze murmured in the branches of the trees and willows.
“Florence, did you believe all the things you heard about me?” Bannister asked.
“Not once,” was the low reply.
“I said it couldn’t be,” Bannister whispered as he took her in his arms. “But now . . .” She stopped his speech with her lips and for a long time stood there. Then Martha, happy and flustered, called them to supper. They entered their home, hand in hand.
THE END
About the Author
Robert J. Horton was born in Coudersport, Pennsylvania, in 1889. As a very young man he traveled extensively in the American West, working for newspapers. For several years he was sports editor for the Great Falls Tribune in Great Falls, Montana. He began writing Western fiction for Munsey’s All-Story Weekly magazine before becoming a regular contributor to Street & Smith’s Western Story Magazine. By the mid-1920s Horton was one of three authors to whom Street & Smith paid 5¢ a word—the other two being Frederick Faust, perhaps better known as Max Brand, and Robert Ormond Case. Many of Horton’s serials for Street & Smith’s Western Story Magazin
e were subsequently brought out as books by Chelsea House, Street & Smith’s book publishing company. Although all of Horton’s stories appeared under his byline in the magazine, for their book editions Chelsea House published them either as by Robert J. Horton or by James Roberts. Sometimes, as was the case with Rovin’ Redden (Chelsea House, 1925) by James Roberts, a book would consist of three short novels that were editorially joined to form a “novel.” Other times the stories were magazine serials published in book form, such as Whispering Cañon (Chelsea House, 1925) by James Roberts or The Prairie Shrine (Chelsea House, 1924) by Robert J. Horton. It may be obvious that Chelsea House, doing a number of books a year by the same author, thought it a prudent marketing strategy to give the author more than one name. Horton’s Western stories are concerned most of all with character, and it is the characters that drive the plots rather than the other way around. Attended by his personal physician, he died of bronchial pneumonia in his Manhattan hotel room in 1934 at the relatively early age of forty-four. Several of his novels, after Street & Smith abandoned Chelsea House, were published only in British editions, and Robert J. Horton was not to appear at all in paperback books until quite recently.
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