by Zane Grey
CHAPTER XII
Morgan put some letters in a drawer of his desk and locked it.
“I’ve got the Old Book behind me,” he muttered, with a sibilant note of exultation in his voice.
He gathered together a number of typewritten pages, all soiled, with the dirty thumb marks of Indians at the bottom. These he placed in an envelope, sealed and addressed it, and placed it in his pocket, to give personally to the Indian mail carrier. Morgan never intrusted his communications to the post- office at Mesa. Pondering a moment, with his fat fingers thrumming on the desk, he had an intense and preoccupied air. The furrows on his brow knit into a knot.
His office adjoined the chapel where he preached to the Indians. It was not a severe and austere room by any means. Color and comfort were exceedingly in evidence. There was a significant absence of anything of Indian design. This study had two other doors, one opening into his living room, the other out upon a back porch.
Presently Morgan got up and went to the open window. The September morning breeze bore a hint of melting frost. The summer was waning. Already the orchard showed the gold and bronze colors of autumn. But out beyond the sweep of desert seemed as changeless as it was endless. That wide expanse of green and yellow, with the dark rugged lines of canyons in the distance, and the stark acres of clay and rock, seemed an encompassing barrier. Morgan had no love for the open spaces.
His first visitor that morning was Jay Lord. Heavy-booted, lazy-striding, he entered familiarly without removing sombrero or cigarette, and his bold face wore a mask of a smile. His dusty garb attested to recent travel.
“Howdy, Morgan!” he said. “I got back last night. Haven’t seen Blucher yet. Reckon I wanted to see you first.”
“Did you find out anything?” queried Morgan.
“Wal, yes an’ no,” returned Lord. “I can’t prove what Blucher wants. Them Pahutes are sure close-mouthed. But I’ve a hunch the Injun Nophay had a lot to do with Gekin Yashi’s disappearance.”
“So had I that hunch,” retorted Morgan, darkly. “Blucher didn’t want to send you. He doesn’t care, now the girl has been brought back. But Icare. And I want examples to be made of Do etin and whoever rode off with Gekin Yashi.”
“Reckon you’ll never prove anythin’ on either Do etin or Nophay,” said Lord, dryly. “You’ll just have to frame them.”
“Jay Lord, I don’t like your talk.”
“Wal, if you don’t like it you can lump it,” drawled the other. “I told you I was ready to work for your interests, in the dark. An’ so I am. But don’t call spades hearts to me. I’ve been ten years rustlin’ round this reservation.”
Morgan’s pale eyes studied the blunt, nonchalant Lord with that penetrating, somber gaze of a shrewd man who trusted no one.
“Very well. We’ll call spades spades,” replied Morgan, succinctly. “I need you. And you want to replace Wolterson. I’ll see that Blucher puts the steam roller under him. And I’ll pay you, besides.”
“How much?” asked Lord, laconically.
“What it’s worth to me,” snapped Morgan. “I don’t pay men before they work.”
“Ahuh! Wal, we understand each other. An’ is my hunch about Blucher correct?”
“What is that?”
“Wal, you wasn’t particular clear, but I sort of got an idee you wanted more on Blucher, so you could steam-roll him when it suited you.”
Morgan deliberated. The way his hand closed tight betrayed his realization that he was dealing with a shrewd, unscrupulous man whom he must bind and hold.
“You’re no fool, Jay Lord. That’s why I want to keep you here at Mesa.... Now tell me why you believe this Indian had something to do with Gekin Yashi’s disappearance?”
“Wal, the day after she was lost I rode across the mesa,” rejoined Lord. “I found where Gekin Yashi had rode off the trail. An’ I searched round till I saw moccasin tracks in the sand, an’ hoss tracks. I’ve been a hoss-tracker all my days, an’ there wasn’t a wrangler in my country who could beat me. I jest got down on my knees an’ made a picture in my mind of them moccasin tracks an’ hoss tracks. Then I measured them. I trailed them tracks all day, till I seen they were goin’ straight north. Then I came back.”
“Well, go on,” said Morgan, impatiently. “The Nokis did as well as that.”
“Sure. But it took them long to find out what I knew right off–that they’d lose the trail when they came to the sage and the flat-rock country up towards Nothsis Ahn.”
“Yes, but if the Nokis lost that trail how did they eventually find Gekin Yashi?”
“Wal, I found that out this trip. Your Nokis didn’t find Gekin Yashi. The Pahutes who had her brought her to the camp of the Nokis.”
“Hump! Pahutes? That is queer. Were these Pahutes afraid?”
“Not of you or Blucher,” replied Lord, with a sardonic grin. “It came about this way. There’s a half-nutty Nopah named Shoie. He’s a spellbinder. He heard about these Pahutes having Gekin Yashi hid deep in the canyons. Of course all the Nopahs knew that. Wal, this nutty Injun sends word by a Pahute that he had put his spell upon Gekin Yashi to kill her. He’d already killed two Nopah women with his spell. The Pahutes are more superstitious than the Nopahs. They fetched Gekin Yashi out to the Nokis who were huntin’ her.”
“Well!” ejaculated Morgan. “And how do you connect the college Indian with this?”
“Wal, that’s the funny part, hard to prove to anybody but myself,” responded Lord, scratching his head. “While I was up in that country I found out where Nophay had lived an’ buried his relation. Sure it’s a wild country. But I rode across it, an’ I finally found Nophay’s hogan. I searched around for hoss tracks and moccasin tracks like them I had pictured in my mind. An’ I found them, plain as print. I found clean-cut moccasin tracks on the grave of Nophay’s relation. I recognized that track. An’ on the way down here I asked a Nopah who buried Nophay’s relation an’ he said Nophay.... Now, Morgan, that’s my hunch. It doesn’t prove anythin’, except to me. I know who stole Gekin Yashi away.
“That’s proof enough for me,” returned Morgan, somberly. “Lord, you’re a sharp fellow. I didn’t appreciate you. We’ll get along.... Now, don’t tell Blucher this about the Indian.... Go now and do Blucher’s bidding. Keep your eyes and ears open. And see me often.”
Morgan intercepted the mail carrier and safely deposited the precious affidavit of his zeal in that trusty Indian’s pocket.
He then wended his observant way up the shady avenue of tall poplars towards the agent’s office. Morgan was light-footed. He stepped softly, though not from any instinct like the Indians. Manifold indeed were the intricacies of his habit of life. As he mounted the high porch steps he heard voices. Friel and the Warner girl! Morgan paused to listen.
“Let me alone,” wearily protested the girl.
The sound of scraping chair on the floor followed, then swift, soft steps, and a man’s voice, with a quick note, rather hoarse. “Marian, don’t you know when a man loves you?”
Morgan opened the door and entered. Friel was trying to enfold Miss Warner in his arms and she was thrusting him back.
“Hah! Excuse me, young folks,” said Morgan, with severe levity. “Am I interrupting a love scene?”
“You are not!” cried Miss Warner, hotly, now jerking free of Friel. Her face was red. Her dark blue eyes blazed. Her bosom heaved. For the first time Morgan thought this blond girl handsome. Only dark women appealed to him.
“So ho?” he ejaculated, with pretension of surprise. “What was it I interrupted, then?”
“Mr. Morgan, you can judge for yourself,” replied the girl.
“Attack, I suppose,” interposed Morgan, as the girl paused breathless.
Friel confronted Morgan in suppressed agitation. He was a tall man, not yet beyond middle age, thin and nervous.
“See here, Morgan, you’re at your old trick of framing some one,” he rasped out.
“Miss Warner, this is serious, but
I acquit you of blame,” said Morgan, paying no attention to the irate Friel. “Where is Blucher?”
“He went to the dormitory to consult Miss Herron.”
“Please go for him. Don’t mention this unfortunate–affair. Leave that to me. I’ll see you are not attacked again.”
When Miss Warner had gone Friel roused from his momentary angry consternation, and he fell into a fury. For a moment he was beside himself, flung his arms, tore his hair, and choked in his utterance.
“Friel, this is a serious charge,” declared Morgan.
“Trump it up! Hatch something! Frame one of your damned tricks!” exclaimed Friel, in low, hoarse passion. “Bah! I’m on to you. How you jump at anything to further your nefarious ends!... I’m honestly in love with that girl. I want her to marry me. You interrupted my love-making.–That and nothing more!”
“Friel, I’d like to believe what you say,” replied Morgan, caustically, “but Miss Warner’s plain talk proves you’re either a liar or out of your head.”
“My heavens! It was her temper, I tell you. She knows I didn’t mean her harm,” protested Friel.
“Suppose I call an investigation by the mission board? If Miss Warner testified to her convictions and if I told what I saw–you would be rather seriously involved, now wouldn’t you?”
Friel gave Morgan one comprehensive glance, keen and malignant, and somehow impotent. Then his whole demeanor changed. Manifestly he had been surprised by Morgan in the expression of amatory advances he did not deem criminal, and next he had fallen prey to perfectly natural wrath. But now he had suddenly lost his excessive irritation, his impulsive and explosive fury.
“Investigation!” he echoed, slowly. “You wouldn’t call one on me?”
“I’ve been your friend here. I’ve kept you here on the reservation. This behavior of yours is not becoming to a missionary. And your ranting at me did not sound like music to my ears. I might call an investigation by the board.”
“You might,” returned Friel, sarcastically. “Which means you won’t just so long as I stand hand in glove with you?”
“Precisely. You remember that little irregularity of yours concerning the testimonials–the thumb prints of Indians who didn’t know they were signing away their land and water right? For land you now have a patent to?”
“Yes, I remember–and most decidedly I remember the idea did not originate wholly in my brain.”
“That you cannot prove,” replied Morgan, tersely. “So I think you’ll be wise to stand on my side of the fence. Here comes Blucher. Not a word of this!”
Morgan locked the door of Blucher’s private office. He did not need more than sight of the agent’s face to see that the German’s twist of mind was at work.
Blucher was stocky of build, light-complexioned, broad of face, with the German look. Intolerance!
“What’s the trouble?” asked Morgan, and it was certain he lowered his voice.
Blucher’s gray-blue eyes dilated and suddenly appeared to gleam dancingly with little arrows of flame.
“What’s your trouble?” he queried, with a laugh. “You’re stewed up, same as I am.”
“Don’t talk so loud,” replied Morgan, with significant look and motion at the door of Miss Warner’s room. “I don’t trust that girl. My Noki says he saw her at the Castle Rocks talking to our college Indian. If it’s true I can see through a good deal. But I’m not so sure of that. The Noki wasn’t close to them. But we’re cautious now.”
“Suppose it was true?” asked Blucher, interested.
“It was that educated Nopah who stole Gekin Yashi from the school.”
Blucher vibrated to that.
“Who told you? How do you know? What––”
“Never mind how I get my facts. I know. That’s enough.”
“But what you know doesn’t satisfy me,” returned Blucher, testily. “I like Miss Warner. She’s a fine girl. I can’t see one fault in her. What’s more, she’s a great help to me. I’d miss her.”
“I’m not suggesting you give her a ride on my steam roller,” rejoined the missionary. “If she’s valuable, get all you can out of her–until we know for sure. And meanwhile be cautious.”
“How’re we going to know for sure? We’ve read some of her letters. But they didn’t prove anything to me. I think you’re overcautious.”
“Not me. Those letters of hers gave me an idea. She lived in Philadelphia and spent her summers at the seashore. She wrote of seeing baseball games there. Now I’ve learned that our college graduate was one of the most famous athletes the Eastern colleges ever developed.”
“That Indian!”
“Yes, that Indian,” rejoined Morgan. “I’m not likely to forget the sample he gave me of his education. That Nopah has brains. Well, I’m wondering if Miss Warner might have known him in the East. I’ll write to my Philadelphia friend and ask him for more information, especially if this Nopah played baseball at the seashore.”
“Why not cut straight to the heart of a problem?” queried Blucher, impatiently. “You work in the dark.”
“It’s never wise to show your hand.”
“Let’s not waste opportunity. I’ll have Miss Warner in here,” replied Blucher.
The missionary raised a warning hand, restraining the agent.
“Wait a moment.” Morgan’s concentration of thought grew more intense. “All right. Fetch her in. But let me question her. I’ll take a chance.”
Blucher, unlocking the door, opened it and called, “Miss Warner, please step here.”
She came in, quiet, composed, but a keen eye could have detected a slight constriction of her throat, a glistening dilation of the pupils of her blue eyes. Morgan assuredly saw the slight signs of agitation. He fixed his cold, icy gaze upon her face.
“Miss Warner, do you deny you’re a friend of the graduate, Nophaie–that you meet him secretly?”
The girl’s golden tan seemed to recede, leaving a clear pallor on cheek and brow. A quick breath escaped her. Then she flushed dark red, her eyes blazed as they had blazed at Friel, her head went up with dauntless spirit.
“Mr. Morgan, am I to understand that I am a hireling to whom you are privileged to put such personal questions?” she flashed at him, in counter query.
Morgan made a slight motion of his hand, as if for Blucher to dismiss her. Manifestly he had been answered to his satisfaction.
“Do you deny?” interposed Blucher.
“I would not deny any implication whatever made by Mr. Morgan,” returned the girl, loftily.
“Very well. That will do,” said Blucher, waving her to the door, which he closed and locked after her.
Morgan signed him to draw a chair closer, and he whispered:
“It’s more than I suspected. Your doll-face is a deep, clever woman. She meets the Indian. Maybe she’s in love with him. Absolutely she’s not what she seems.”
The agent stroked his chin and gazed with abject wonder and disgust at the missionary.
“Morgan, you look for rottenness in every man and woman because your mind is rotten,” he said. “I don’t believe what you think about her.”
Morgan’s stout body jerked a little, as with the propelling of blood in sudden anger. And the lowering cold shadow of his eyes might have been thought- provoking to a less stolid man than Blucher.
“I usually find what I look for,” rejoined Morgan. “Let’s drop Miss Warner for the present. How about the Wolterson case?”
The agent unlocked his desk and produced letters and papers.
“Wolterson is about ready for your steam roller,” said Blucher, grimly. “All my reports have gone through. Here’s copy of a letter to Wolterson from Commissioner Salisbury, Department of the Interior at Washington.”
Blucher spread a paper covered with handwriting in lead pencil and he read:
Robert Wolterson
Through Supt., Mesa Indian School.
Sir:
Reports indicate that your services as
stockman are not satisfactory; that you lack energy and initiative; that you boast you can make a living without work; that you are wholly inattentive to your duties and have no interest in the welfare of the Service; that you spend your time in idleness, loafing around your quarters, at different traders’ stores, or taking pleasure trips; that you almost invariably remain in bed after the other employees are at their work; that you have neglected the agency stallions, which were in your care, to such extent that one of them died; and that through your negligence a young heifer recently died.
You will be given ten days from the receipt of this letter to show cause, if any, why you should not be transferred or dismissed from the Service. Your reply should be submitted through the Superintendent within the time specified.
Respectfully,
Otto Salisbury.
“Humph!” ejaculated Morgan. “That’s not much of a charge against Wolterson. What was his reply through you?”
“It’s too long to read. Take this copy with you. One thing sure, Wolterson makes a strong case, and just about proves it. More than that, he has bobbed up with influential friends in Texas, one of them a Senator. The best we can expect is that Wolterson will be transferred to some other point on the reservation.”
“That will do. What we don’t want is an investigation out here. Wolterson is sharp enough to get that college Indian down here, with a lot of Nopahs who know things.... I see this Indian, and Wolterson, his wife, Miss Warner, the traders, all in a clique to oust you.”
“If me, why not you?” queried Blucher, darkly.
Morgan waved a deprecatory hand, singularly expressive.
“You’re only the superintendent.”
“And you have the Old Book behind you, yes?” demanded Blucher, scornfully.
“I, yes, yes, YES!” replied Morgan, in rising crescendo.
