by Dean Owen
“You can rely upon my information being correct,” were Westlake’s last words, spoken aside before he climbed into the buckboard and Molly flirted the reins over the backs of the team shooting off at top speed.
Sandy’s mood had changed. He was in high fettle as he watched them go. The rider who was breaking horses for the Three Star surrendered his job that morning to the “old man.”
Molly came back a little before noon, her eyes wide with excitement.
“Mr. Keith’s in town,” she said. “With Donald and his secretary, Mr. Blake. He asked me if Mr. Westlake had been here and he seemed annoyed when I told him I had just seen him off on the train. They all came from Casey Town in the big car. Has there been any trouble between Mr. Keith and Mr. Westlake?”
“The South American offer is a better chance than Casey Town,” answered Sandy. “Mr. Keith may have been annoyed about that. His boy’s along, you say? Is he comin’ oveh to the ranch?”
“Yes. He wanted to come with me, to drive me out in the car, but I had the buckboard and I’d rather drive horses any day. So he’ll be out a little later to take up your invitation. Mr. Keith has some business in Hereford. He and Mr. Blake will stay on their private car. He told me to tell you he would be out tomorrow to see you. Oh, here’s a telegram for you.”
“Thanks.” Sandy tucked the envelope in his pocket. “Hop out, Molly, an’ I’ll put up the team.”
“I’ll help you. I haven’t forgotten how to unhitch.” Her nimble fingers worked as fast as Sandy’s with buckles, coiling traces and looping reins. She led the team off to the drinking trough and fed each an apple, with Sandy looking at her, registering the picture that made such strong appeal.
“Goin’ to take Donald Keith out fo’ a real ride on a real hawss?” he asked her.
“Yes. Tomorrow. He’s keen to go. You’ll come. And Sam and Kate?”
“I’ve got a hunch I’m goin’ to be busy ter-morrer. Keith’s comin’, fo’ one thing.”
“I forgot. I wish you could come.” The passing shadow on her face was sunshine to Sandy. Molly went into the house and he opened the telegram. It was from Brandon, as he expected.
Thanks. Coming immediately. Was starting anyway. That trap worked. May need horses for eight. Will you arrange?
Brandon.
“It sure looks like a busy day ter-morrer,” Sandy said half aloud. “Keith and Brandon—which means roundin’ up Jim Plimsoll. Sam don’t get to any picnic, either. He’ll have to ’tend to the hawsses.”
The Keith touring car arrived in mid-afternoon with young Keith at the wheel, the chauffeur beside him, grips in the tonneau. Donald Keith jumped out, affable, a little inclined to condescension at first toward everything connected with the ranch, including Kate Nicholson. The imperturbable driver left with the car. Young Keith’s snobbery wore off as he inspected the corrals and the stock with eager interest and the riders with a certain measure of awe, which he transferred to Sandy on learning that he had broken two colts that morning.
“If they’re broken, I must be all apart,” he said, watching them plunge wildly about the corral at the sight of visitors. “I’d hate to try to ride one of them in Central Park. If I could stick on I’d be pinched for endangering the public. Wish I could have seen you bu’st them.”
“There’ll be mo’ of it befo’ you leave,” said Sandy. His mood of the morning held. His generosity of feeling toward Keith’s boy did not lessen when he saw how much the elder of the two Molly appeared. The youngster was spoiled, probably selfish, but he was distinctly likable.
“Know what time yore father expects to be out?” Sandy asked him, later.
“He didn’t say. He’s got some business to attend to. Some time in the forenoon, I imagine. I know he’s figuring on getting back to Casey Town tonight. Molly, you haven’t taken me out to see your father’s grave. Won’t you? You promised to.” Sandy liked the lad for that. But it did not ameliorate his attitude toward the visit of Keith Senior.
That worthy arrived after lunch had been cleared the next day. Kate Nicholson busied herself to wait deferentially upon him and his secretary, the fox-faced Blake. Keith was brisk and brusk, breathing prosperity.
“I was detained in Hereford, Bourke,” he said. “I haven’t much time for anything but a flying visit. I promised Mrs. Keith I’d come over the first opportunity, and I wanted to see you. Donald’s out with Molly, you say. I’ll leave him with you on your invitation and pick him up when we go back east. That will be in about a week. Sooner than I expected. I’d like to spare a day to look over the ranch. I’ve heard fine things about it.”
“Thanks,” drawled Sandy laconically. “Glad to have a talk with you. Sam, Mr. Blake might like to see the hawsses gentled that came up this mo’nin’.”
Keith raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Leaving Blake, Sandy led Keith to his office, rolled a cigarette, offered a chair to his visitor and smoked, waiting for the latter to open the talk.
“There are some papers for you to examine, as Molly’s guardian,” said Keith. “But Blake has them.”
“We’ll take them up later. Anythin’ else?”
Keith looked sharply at Sandy’s face. There was a certain grimness to it that reminded the promoter of the first time he had seen it. His own changed to a mask, expressionless, save for his eyes, holding suspicion that changed to aggressiveness. But the latter did not show in his voice which was smooth and ingratiating.
“Nothing of great importance. I hear Westlake has been over here, Bourke. We had a misunderstanding. Sorry to lose him, since you recommended him.”
“He figgers he has a better job,” answered Sandy.
“I’m glad he thinks so. He is young and lacks experience. His opinion clashed with that of my engineer-in-charge, an expert of high standing. Westlake was hot-headed and would not brook being overruled. There is no doubt but that he was mistaken. He is a valuable man, under a superior, but he is intolerant.”
“He didn’t strike me that way,” said Sandy. “Me, I set a good deal on his opinion.”
“I didn’t imagine you knew much about mining, Bourke.” Keith looked at his watch. “I’ll really have to be going as soon as you have looked over those papers. Hadn’t we better call Blake?”
Sandy looked out of the window. He saw Miranda Bailey’s flivver halting by the big car, Mormon walking toward her, and wondered what had brought her over. So far he had not got the opening he wanted, unless he took up defense of Westlake more forcibly to introduce the matter. He was inclined to suggest a trip for himself to Casey Town to inspect the mine in company with Keith that night, but the coming of Brandon hampered him. He wanted to be on hand for that. Then he saw Mormon leave Miranda and come toward the office, bowling along at top speed.
“Excuse me a minute, Keith,” he said. “My partner wants to see me.”
Keith’s face wore a scowl as Sandy stepped outside. His conscience was not entirely clear and he did not like the general atmosphere of the office. He scented antagonism in this rancher who called him Keith without the prefix. It was all right for him to omit it, but.… He took out a cigar, bit off the end savagely and lit it.
“Mirandy wants to see you,” panted Mormon. “She’s found out somethin’ about Keith that sure shows his play. He’s been discardin’!”
The Keith chauffeur had wandered off to the corrals where Sam was showing Blake around. Miranda handed Sandy a long envelope.
“Hen Collins had an accident last night,” she said. “Blew a tire on the bridge by our place an’ smashed through the railin’. Bu’sted a rib or two an’ was knocked out. We took him in. I’m sorry for Hen but it sure was a lucky accident. You see, Keith told him to keep quiet but Hen was grateful to Ed fo’ takin’ him in an’ puttin’ him to bed an’ sendin’ fo’ the doctor. Don’t open that envellup, that Keith weasel might be lookin’. I reckon you’ll want to sprin
g it on him sudden.”
“Sure,” said Sandy. “Spring what?”
“I’m flustered,” admitted Miranda. “I usually talk straight. Now I’ll start to the beginnin’. When Keith arrived on this trip he held quite a reception in his private car. Ed was there with the rest. He invited them up fo’ cigars. Talked big about Casey Town an’ gen’ally patted himself on the back. Said it was too bad all the stock of the Molly wasn’t held in locally, but of co’se the pore promoter had to have somethin’ fo’ his money. He was real affable. Ben Creel asked him if he didn’t want to sell some of his Molly stock an’ they all laffed.
“This time, when he come back yesterday, he brings up the subject ag’in. He, an’ that secretary of his who looks like a coyote. I don’t know how many he saw or jest what he said, but this is what he told Hen. After he’d got Hen to lead up to it, mind you. That Casey Town was boomin’ big an’ that his own holdin’s was nettin’ him a heap. That he liked Hen fine an’ had picked him out as a representative citizen. With a lot mo’ slush, the upshot of which was that he lets him have a hundred shares of the Molly Mine at par. Hen was to say nothin’ about it because, says Keith, if it got out he was sellin’ stock, it would send down the price of the shares an’ hurt Casey Town in general, Hereford some, an’ you-all at the Three Star in partickler. I reckon he was plausible enough. Hen was sure tickled. He w’udn’t have said a word about it on’y Ed picks these shares up out of the bed of the crick an’ give them to Hen afteh he’d been fixed up.
“Ed went nosin’ around Hereford this mo’nin’. He got eight men—their names is inside the envelope—Creel one of ’em—to admit they’d bought some shares. Mighty glad they was to have ’em. Ed didn’t tell ’em anything different, but he come scootin’ home at noon an’ I borrowed Hen’s certificut, seein’ he was asleep. An’ here it is.”
“Mirandy,” said Sandy, “I’ll let Mormon tell you what we all think of you. You’ve sure dealt me an ace. Mormon, help Sam ride herd on the secretary. I’ll be callin’ you in after a bit. You’ll stay, Mirandy?”
“I’ll go visit with Kate Nicholson. I’m beginnin’ to like her real well. Molly away?”
Sandy left Mormon to tell her and returned to the office. Keith eyed the envelope.
“Blake coming?” he asked.
“Not yet. When do we get another dividend from the Molly, Keith?”
Keith laughed.
“You’re as bad as all the others,” he said. “Sell a man stock, give him a dividend and he’s like a girl eating candy. You had one just fourteen weeks ago.”
Sandy nodded.
“I was askin’ you about the next,” he said, his voice still drawling but with a finer edge to it.
“Needing some ready money?”
“How about the dividend?”
“Why, that depends upon the output.” Keith’s voice purred but his eyes had narrowed. He watched Sandy like a card player who begins to think his opponent superior to first impressions. “The output has been big. The Molly has been a bonanza, so far. I do not think it wise always to pay dividends according to the immediate production, however. It is better, as a rule, to average it, generally to develop the mine as a whole rather than work the first rich veins.”
“That why you boarded up the stopes?”
Keith’s face grew dark. The veins twitched at his temples.
“Look here, Bourke,” he blustered. “You’ve been listening to some fool talk from that cub, Westlake. I know my business. You’ve got some stock in the mine, twenty-five percent. I’ve put money and brains into it and I’ve got forty-nine percent, Molly.…”
“If you had fo’ty-nine percent, I wouldn’t be worryin’ so much.”
“What the devil do you mean?”
“I took you fo’ a betteh gambler than to git mad,” said Sandy. “I’ll jest ask you a question on behalf of myse’f an’ partners’ twenty-five percent, an’ Molly’s twenty-six, me bein’ her guardian. Plump an’ plain, is the Molly pinched out?”
Keith hesitated, struggled to control himself.
“Save me a trip over to Casey Town, mebbe,” Sandy added.
“I got mad just now, Bourke, because of the interference of a man I fired for lack of common sense, experience and recognition of his superiors. Westlake is a hot-head and I suppose he has some idea of trying to get even with me by belittling me in your eyes and running down my management. I think I have shown my interests allied with yours. Mrs. Keith and I.”
“She don’t come into this. You didn’t answer my question, Keith. How about it?”
“It’s a damned falsehood.”
“Then why are you sellin’ your stock?”
The words came like bullets as Sandy whipped the certificate out of the envelope and slapped it smartly on the desk. Keith whitened, flushed again, recovered himself.
“If I was not friendly to you, Bourke, I should take that as a direct insult. I can understand that you believe in Westlake and take stock in what he told you. But he is a discharged employee. He has every reason.…”
Sandy held up his hand.
“He’s a friend of mine,” he said. “Keith, I may not know the minin’ game—as you play it. In some ways it’s gamblin’, like playin’ poker. I’ve played that a heap. I can tell pritty well when a man’s bluffin’. Mebbe you’re losin’ some of yore nerve lately. You show it in yore face. Yore eyes flickered when you said it was a ‘damned falsehood.’ I don’t hanker to insult a man but—I don’t believe you. An’ here’s this stock you sold. I’ve got the names of more you sold it to. Why?”
“A man in my position,” said Keith slowly, “swings many big deals and sometimes he is pushed for ready money.”
“I reckon that’s the reason,” said Sandy dryly. “Well, you’ve got to git it some other way. You’ve got to buy these stocks back, Keith. I control the big end of the stock in the Molly. If I have to go to the bother of gittin’ an expert of my own, an’ goin’ to Casey Town to look back of those stopes, you’re goin’ to be sorry fo’ it.”
“I have a right to sell my stock.”
“You ain’t goin’ to exercise that right, Keith. You may make a business sellin’ chances to folks who like to buy ’em, but you can’t sell Herefo’d folks paper when they think they’re buyin’ gold. I won’t bunco my neighbors an’ I ain’t goin’ to ’low you to do it with any proposition I’m interested in. You’ll give me the money you got fo’ the shares with a list of the men you sold ’em to an’ I’ll tell ’em the Molly is pinched out—as it is.”
“You must be crazy, man! They wouldn’t believe you. If you went round with a statement like that you’d lose every cent of your own and your ward’s. You have no right.…”
“Trouble is with you, you don’t know the meanin’ of that last word,” said Sandy. “Right is jest what I aim to do. We’ll put it up to Molly an’ you’ll see where she stands. We don’t do business out west the way you do. We don’t rob our friends or even try an’ run a razoo on strangehs. I reckon the folks’ll believe me. If they don’t I’ll give ’em stock of ours, share fo’ share, to convince ’em until it’s known the Molly has flivvered.”
“You’ll ruin the whole camp.”
“Not to my mind. They’ll git out what gold’s left The Molly’ll shut down. I’ll git you to give me a statement ’long with the money an’ the list fo’ me to check up, sayin’ you’ve jest had news the vein has petered out sudden—like it has. That’s lettin’ you down easy. They’ll think you an honorable man ’stead of a bunco-steerer. I’m doin’ this ’count of the fact you folks have looked out fo’ Molly. An’ I’m tellin’ you, Keith, that, if Herefo’d folks knew you’d deliberately sold them rotten stock, you an’ yore private car might suffer consid’rable damage befo’ you got away. Out west folks still git riled over trick plays an’ holdouts, hawss-stealin’ an’ otheh deals that ain’t squar
e. I’d sure advise you to come across.”
Keith looked into the face of Sandy and, briefly, into his eyes, hard as steel. He made one more attempt.
“Let’s talk common sense, Bourke. You’re quixotic. The Molly is capitalized for a quarter of a million dollars. The stock can be sold at par if it’s done quietly. I can dispose of it for you. There is no certainty that the mine will not produce richly when we strike through the second level of porphyry. There are plenty of people willing to buy shares on that chance after the showing already made. I tried to say just now that you have no right to throw away your ward’s money, and you are a fool to throw away your own. People buy stock as a gamble.”
“No sense in you talkin’ any mo’ that way, Keith. Mebbe you sell paper to folks who gamble on it, an’ on what you tell ’em about the chances, makin’ yore story gold-colored. Folks may like to git somethin’ fo’ nex’ to nothin’, but I won’t sell ’em nothin’ fo’ somethin’, neitheh will my partners, neitheh will Molly Casey. She’s a western gel. Above all, I won’t gold-brick my friends. I know the mine is petered out. You won’t call my play about havin’ an expert examine it, which same is no bluff. I believe in Westlake’s report. We’ve had our share of the gold in it an’, we won’t sell the dirt. No mo’ w’ud Pat Casey, lyin’ out there by the spring, if he was alive.”
“Suppose I refuse?” asked Keith, his square face obstinate. “I’ve done nothing outside the law.”
“To hell with that kind of law! We make laws of our own out here once in a while. Justice is what we look fo’, not law. We aim to trail straight. I reckon you’ll come through. Fo’ one thing I expect to have yore boy visit with us till you do.”
The promoter’s face twisted uglily and he lost control of himself.
“Kidnapping? A western method of justice. Not the first time you’ve been mixed up in it either, from what I hear. You don’t dare.…”
Keith stopped abruptly. Sandy had not moved, but his eyes, from resembling orbs of chilled steel, seemed suddenly to throw off the blaze and heat of the molten metal.
