“I couldn’t do that,” said Barbara firmly, “without first exhausting every means to raise the money.”
Horace was annoyed. The Cinchbuckle was the key ranch, and he must have it at any cost. Like Steve, he was finding it increasingly hard to curb his cupidity.
“At what amount do you value the ranch?” he asked. “Leave sentiment out of it, please. Just assume that it is being sold by the sheriff. What amount is it likely to bring?”
“In its present condition, possibly ten thousand dollars,” she replied bitterly.
“Just enough to liquidate the notes. In addition there would be interest and costs. Miss Dawn, to expedite the matter and settle it amicably and quickly I will pay you two thousand dollars and cancel the notes in exchange for a deed to the property.”
She shook her head stubbornly. “As long as there is a chance remaining I must refuse.”
“You’re crazy,” he told her shortly. “What chance have you? Where are you going to pick up ten thousand dollars? And then there is the matter of Clement. His trial comes up soon. Accommodate me in this matter and I will defend him myself, free of charge, and win his freedom for you.”
“Just what do you mean by that? What could you do, in the face of the evidence, that another can not do?”
He leered at her. “There are ways that you know nothing of. I have the reputation of being a shrewd lawyer. I am acquainted with the witnesses and I am not without influence. They may have been—mistaken.”
For a long moment she stared at him. Almost had he admitted what she already believed—that the whole thing had been a frame-up. The man before her was utterly vile; she could no more trust his promises than she could make herself a party to his crookedness. Her head went up.
“Clement is innocent. We will have him acquitted in the regular way. As to the ranch, something may turn up to save it for us.”
“Perhaps. Manna once fell from Heaven, I believe.”
He left in a huff, whipping his horse into a run. The girl’s stubbornness irked him beyond measure; certainly it seemed that a malign Fate was taking a fiendish pleasure in frustrating him.
Barry and Clay joined her on the gallery, and heard her story through without interruption.
“It’s like I said,” Clay declared moodily. “The old lobo wants the ranch and wants it badly. And I don’t know what we can do about it.”
“If they would only catch Frothingham,” she said desperately. “If the money were recovered we might get an extension.”
“Don’t you believe it. The notes remain demand notes regardless of whether or not the money is recovered. It wouldn’t help us a bit.”
Barry spoke thoughtfully. “Barbara mentioned one thing that Moley said that struck me. It was about Frothingham’s generosity in sharin’ the money of the bank with the Basin ranchers. It seems to me that if I was plannin’ to run off with my bank’s cash I wouldn’t go around lendin’ thirty or forty thousand dollars right before I checked out.”
“Maybe he had to leave in a hurry,” suggested Clay. “He must have been a crook; maybe he thought they were about to catch up with him.”
“And maybe,” added Barry quietly, “his abscondin’ was a part of Horace Moley’s scheme.”
Clay jerked erect. “You mean Horace knew all about it?”
“The plot—if there is one—isn’t against the Cinchbuckle alone. The night I came home I caught my step-father and Steve Moley in the act of forgin’ a deed to the Flyin’ W. They want that spread too. A year ago George Brent was sold out—through the bank. Harry Webb and Jeff Hope have deeded their spreads over to Moley, and likely Matt Billings will have to do the same. If Moley wants to gain control of Mescal Basin, he couldn’t have planned a better way of gettin’ it than by havin’ Frothingham lend the ranchers plenty of money and then skip out so that the notes could be called.”
“Barry, that’s an awful far-fetched theory; but it covers everything!”
“It’s just a guess, and we haven’t a bit of proof. That’s been the trouble all along—no witnesses. Nobody saw the rustlin’ but me; nobody knew about Barbara’s givin’ Maley the money; nobody knew that he owned the bank; even you couldn’t take the stand and swear that you were robbed of your money. Maley is a lawyer, and a sharp one. He’s covered up all around. We can believe all we want and even know certain things to be true; but we haven’t a single witness to back us up, and if we made any accusations we’d just be openin’ ourselves to a libel suit.”
They were moodily discussing this when a horseman rode into the yard. It was one of the crew with the mail and the latest news from town. Matt Billings had returned with his posse. Not a sign of Frothingham had they found; nobody had seen the missing cashier, nor had he left a single clue except the abandoned horse. And Matt, too, had deeded his ranch to Horace Moley.
When the man had ridden away, Barry got to his feet.
“I’m gain’ after Frothingham myself. The more I think of it the more convinced I am that Maley is behind this just as he has been behind everything else. If I can nail Frothingham I’ll squeeze the truth out of him.”
“Where are you goin’ to look for him?”
“If you were an abscondin’ cashier, which way would you head?”
“South,” said Clay after a moment. “Plumb across the Border.”
“And if you wanted to throw folks off your trail, you might manage to leave your horse on the stage road leadin’ north.”
“By jacks, I would! Have two horses, and head south with the other!”
Barbara’s eyes were shining. “Barry, I believe you’ve hit it! I remember now something Frothingham said the last time I rode with him. It was about a vacation under the sunny skies of Mexico.” She colored slightly at the memory.
“I’m goin’ with you,” announced Clay.
“Glad to have you. We’ll take Nip and Tuck.... Here come Nip and Lola now.”
Nip and the Mexican girl trotted their horses to the rack and swung to the ground. Barry noticed that the roses were again in Lola’s cheeks, and that Nip appeared in good spirits. They came up on the gallery and the whole story was retold for their benefit.
“I’m ready to go,” announced Nip. “My patient done got well in spite of her nurse. But what about Tuck? We sure ain’t goin’ to leave your ma alone.”
Lola spoke quietly. “I weel stay weeth ’er. Me, I’m good cook. I weel tak good care of Bar-ree’s madre.”
That same evening four determined riders took the trail which led over the south hills and into Mexico.
CHAPTER XVI
THE WAGES OF SIN
THE EVENING of the third day they crossed the Rio Grande and succeeded in getting supper and a poorly ventilated room in the village of Torres. Here they had hoped to secure some information regarding the missing cashier, but their inquiries were answered with shrugs and the shaking of heads.
“He’ll hardly stop for any length of time until he reaches a large town where he can lose himself in the shuffle,” said Barry. “The question is, did he follow the river east or west, or did he keep on into the interior?”
Clay answered thoughtfully. “He might have gone east hopin’ to reach a seaport where he could get a ship for Europe.”
“Sure,” agreed Nip. “Also he might have gone west knowin’ that folks would figger he went east.”
They decided finally to follow the river towards the east until they were certain Frothingham had not traveled that way, then search to the west. If they were unsuccessful in both directions, they would head for the interior.
They started the next morning, riding swiftly along the Border, stopping at every hovel and town on the road. No one had seen Frothingham; there was no evidence that he had passed that way. Still they pressed on, camping in the open at night, picking up what supplies they needed and could comfortably carry in the towns or at the occasional ranchos they encountered. Four days of this convinced them that they were on the wrong track, so they retraced their
steps and followed the Border westward.
They had no better luck. Doggedly they returned to their starting point and headed by the best road into the interior. And just when they were about to give up the chase as hopeless, they picked up information which sent their hopes soaring.
It was the end of the twentieth day after leaving the Flying W, and they were tired and disheartened and painfully aware that affairs in the Basin must be approaching their final climax. They entered a town at sunset and stopped at the nearest cantina.
“I reckon we’re licked,” Barry told them grimly. “Frothingham must have gone north after all. We’ll bed down here and start back tomorrow.”
They turned their horses over to a Mexican boy and went into the saloon. Lining up at the bar they ordered drinks, and once again, almost mechanically, Barry inquired about a tall, well-dressed American traveling alone.
The bartender’s face lighted. “But of a surety, señor, one such passed through here.”
“He did?” came in a chorus of four voices. Their weariness was gone like mist before the sun.
“Si, señors. One, two week ago. Mucho alto—w’at you call ’igh op een the air. The hair, she ees black, and hees clothes she ees got on heem mach dus’, but ver’, ver’ good. You know w’at I’m mean?”
“How old was he?”
The man shrugged. “Quien sabe? May be t’irty, may be feefty.”
“Any baggage?”
“One leetle black—w’at you call heem? Lak these.” He indicated an object a foot and a half long. “Weeth ’andle.”
“You mean a satchel?”
“Sure; that’s heem. Ees buy moch vino and eat—ah, señors, ’ow she ees eat! Lak the bear w’en she come out een the spreeng.”
“Did he give a name?”
“Name? No; but w’atta’ell! That ees nossing. She ees stay t’ree day and night and rest; then she ees ride to the south.”
Barry questioned him further, but got no more information. He was satisfied, though, that this was his man, and rewarded the bartender liberally.
Morning found them on their way, eager, alert, anxious to overcome the handicap of a long start. Clues they picked up at almost every stopping point. Frothingham was traveling leisurely now. Presently the trail began to veer to the east, then towards the northeast.
“Doublin’ back to the Border,” said Barry. “Boys, he’s foxy.”
They traveled fast, and finally were forced to purchase fresh horses at a rancho. From then on they rapidly cut down the distance between them and their quarry. And at last they rode into a town just twelve hours after Frothingham had left it.
“We’ll stop here and rest tonight,” said Barry. “We’re close to him now, and must be fresh for a last dash. Tomorrow we should overtake him.”
Late the next evening they entered another town. It was quite a large one, with a number of cantinas any one of which might shelter Frothingham. Tuck, who was not so well known by the banker, was sent ahead to investigate the first of these, and returned with the information that Frothingham was not there. They rode to the place, stabled their horses, and had supper in a private room. Over the meal they made their plans.
“Tonight we’ll separate and investigate every cantina in the town,” Barry told them. “This room will be our headquarters. If you spot him, come here and wait for the others. We have no authority to take him, but when he leaves we’ll nab him and ride straight to the Border.”
One at a time they left the room, each following a course which had been laid out for him.
Barry went into one saloon after the other, carefully surveyed their occupants, and exchanged words with bartenders and others who might have seen the tall American. Now here could he find a trace of the cashier; but the hunch that Frothingham was in this town, perhaps within a stone’s throw of him, remained. He returned to the room confidant that one of the other three searchers would have located him. One by one they returned, all reporting failure.
“He is in town,” said Barry doggedly. “Go out and look again. You may have missed a place.”
He started all over, making the round of the cantinas he had already visited, questioning an occasional loiterer in the street, but without any success. On a corner he stopped to roll a cigarette, hardly knowing where next to inquire. From within the building behind him came the soft sound of music, the twang of guitars. He dropped the cigarette and turned to stare.
It was the largest place of its kind in the town, being dignified by the title of hotel. Barry had visited its barroom twice; now he decided to try it a third time. He stepped through the low doorway into the hazy atmosphere of the room. The music seemed to come from some place adjacent to the saloon. He bought a drink and casually inquired. The music, he was informed, originated in the dining room where, if he felt inclined to eat, he might secure good food and entertainment. There was a passage from the saloon which he might use. Barry passed through the doorway indicated into a gloomy corridor, came to a pair of soiled velvet hangings, parted them and peered into the dining room.
The place was in semi-darkness, the only illumination besides the stage lights being a single candle on each table. By this light the patrons ate their suppers to the accompaniment of music and dancing. Most of the occupants were in the shadow, but Barry was able to distinguish the features of those nearest him, and when one of these suddenly thrust his face near the candle he gave a gasp of surprise. Never could he forget that huge head with its dark bushy eyebrows and heavy black beard. The man was Tug Groody.
Tug’s avid gaze was fixed on the back of a man at a nearby table, a man who dined alone. Barry felt his blood tingle. An instant later this man turned to summon a waiter, and Barry recognized Frothingham.
Instantly he planned his course of action, but even as he was about to retrace his steps to the barroom, Tug got to his feet and crossed the floor to the table at which sat the banker. His face was in the darkness now, but Barry saw his outthrust hand, caught the start which Frothingham gave as he looked up at the man standing by his chair, His own hand came out reluctantly, and Tug sank into a vacant chair, calling to a waiter to move his dinner to the place he now occupied.
Barry retraced his steps to the saloon, went outside, and entered what served as a lobby. He asked for a room and was given a key. Putting it into a pocket, he moved to a chair which stood in a gloomy corner, seated himself, and drew his hat brim over his eyes as though to doze. Through the open doorway which led to the dining room he could see Tug and Frothingham at their table. They were talking earnestly. Presently they got up and came towards the door. Barry slid down in his chair and tried to appear inconspicuous. They came into the lobby, arguing in low voices, and turned to the stairs without looking in his direction.
As soon as they had passed out of sight, Barry got up, yawned, and followed them. The upstairs corridor was empty, but he could hear their voices behind one of the closed doors. Quickly he descended to the ground floor, and, passing out into the street, hurried to the room where they were to meet. Clay was waiting there, but Nip and Tuck had not returned. Barry waited impatiently for five minutes.
“Can’t wait any longer; they may leave. When the boys come in, get the horses and come to the hotel. I’ll be outside or in the lobby.”
As soon as he entered the hotel he realized that something was wrong. A number of employees were gathered at the foot of the stairs, talking excitedly in Spanish, and above their shrill voices he could hear the sound of oaths, the crashing of furniture, and the thud of heavy blows. Passing through them, he dashed up the steps and tried the door from beyond which came the noise. It was locked. Barry backed away, gathered himself for a spring. From within the room came the sullen boom of a heavy shot and the cry of a man mortally wounded.
Barry flung himself at the door, kept battering at it until it was torn from its hinges. He stumbled into the room, caught his balance, glanced swiftly about him.
The place was a wreck. The bed had collapsed and
lay in a heap, the washstand had been overturned, the heavy pitcher broken to bits. Across a splintered chair lay Frothingham, clothes almost torn from his body, a crimson splotch on his breast. Barry ran to him, laid him on the floor, slipped an arm under his shoulders and raised him.
There was no water in the room, and not a soul had mounted the stairs to help him. He called, but still no one responded, although he could hear their excited voices. Swearing softly, he was about to lower the man and go for assistance when he saw Frothingham’s eyes open. The man gasped, spoke chokingly.
“Tug—Tug—Groody !”
“I know. Talk fast, Frothingham, you haven’t much time. This bank failure: it was planned by Horace Maley, wasn’t it?”
The man’s eyes flamed. “Yes! He—wanted—Basin. Double—crosser. Killed Slater—killed—me.” He choked again and went limp.
Barry glanced desperately about him. If only he had a witness to Frothingham’s confession! He ran to the door and shouted in Spanish for somebody to come. Steps sounded on the stairs and a slick-haired Mexican appeared at the doorway. Barry spoke to him in English, but the man shrugged.
“No hablo Ingles.”
Barry swore softly and felt in a pocket. From it he drew a pencil and a scrap of paper. Quickly he wrote:
I, Alonzo J. Frothingham, hereby state with my dying breath that the failure of my bank was planned by Horace Moley in order that he might gain possession of the ranches in Mescal Basin.
Frothingham opened his eyes again as Barry raised him, but they were glazing rapidly and Weston realized with a sinking of spirit that the man could no longer see. Raising Frothingham’s right arm, Barry placed the pencil in the lax fingers.
“It’s a confession involving Maley,” he said quickly. “Can you hear me? Sign it!”
Frothingham nodded weakly, tried to grip the pencil; but it fell from his fingers. Barry recovered it, thrust it back into his grasp.
Wolves of the Chaparral Page 15
