The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack

by Charles Alden Seltzer

  “Perfectly,” answered Silverthorn. He was smiling mirthlessly, his face blotched and bloated with mingled fear and rage. “But I’ll have you understand this: I am not afraid of your threats. You can’t bully me. The S. and M. Railroad has dealt with your kind on more than one occasion. There is an opportunity here to develop a large section of land, and my company means to do it. We mean to be fair, however. We’ll buy your title to the Double A. How much do you want for it?”

  Sanderson grinned. “The Double A is not for sale. I wouldn’t sell it to you for a million! You cheap crooks think that all you have to do is to take anything you want. I just stopped in to tell you that I’m wise to your game, an’ that the kind of law I represent ain’t cluttered up with angles an’ technical processes. She runs straight to a square deal all around. That’s all, Mr. Silverthorn.”

  He turned and went out, closing the door behind him.

  He had not intended to have his talk with Tom Maison, Okar’s banker, until the following morning. But upon returning to Okar’s street he saw Maison ahead of him on the sidewalk. He followed the banker, saw him enter the front door of the bank building, and a few minutes later he was sitting opposite Maison at a table in the banker’s private room.

  Maison was short and pudgy, short of breath, with a pasty complexion.

  “Will Bransford, eh?” he said, looking sharply at Sanderson over the table. “H’m. You don’t look much like your father.”

  “Nor I don’t act like him, either,” smiled Sanderson. “For instance,” he went on at the banker’s quick look, “dad was slow; he wasn’t alive to his opportunities. How long has it been since the railroad came to Okar?”

  “Five years.”

  “Then dad was five years slower than he ought to have been. He ought to have seen what water would do to the basin. He didn’t—left that for me.”

  “Meaning what?” asked Maison, as Sanderson paused.

  “Meanin’ that I want to turn the Double A water into the basin. That’s what I came here to see you for. I want to mortgage the Double A to the limit; I want to build a dam, irrigation canals, locks, an’ everything that goes with it. It will take a heap of money.”

  Maison reflected. “And you want me to supply it,” he said. “Yes, that project will require a large sum. H’m! It is—er—do you purpose to try to handle the project yourself, Mr. Bransford?”

  “Me an’ Mary Bransford. I’ll hire an engineer.”

  Maison’s cheeks reddened a trifle. He seemed to lose interest slightly.

  “Don’t you think it is rather too big a thing for one man to handle—aided by a woman?” He smiled blandly at Sanderson. “I have thought of the water situation in the basin. It is my opinion that it might be worked out successfully.

  “Why not organize a company—say a company composed of influential and powerful men like Silverthorn and Dale and—er—myself. We could issue stock, you know. Each would take a certain number of shares—paying you for them, of course, and leaving you in possession of a large block of it—say—forty percent. We could organize, elect officers—”

  “An’ freeze me out,” smiled Sanderson.

  Maison sat erect and gazed haughtily at his visitor.

  “No one has ever questioned my honesty,” he declared.

  Sanderson smiled at him. “Nor I don’t. But I want to play her a lone hand.”

  “I am afraid I wouldn’t be interested in that sort of project,” said Maison.

  The thought that Maison would be interested—not publicly, but privately—made Sanderson grin. The grin angered Maison; he arose smiling coldly.

  “I am sorry to have taken your time, Mr. Bransford,” he said, dismissing his visitor.

  Sanderson did not give up. “My father left some money in your bank,” he said; “I’ll take it.”

  “Certainly,” said the banker. He got a withdrawal blank and laid it before Sanderson.

  “The amount is three thousand two hundred,” he said. “Just fill that out and sign your name and yon can have the money.”

  Sanderson did not sign; he sat, looking at the blank, suddenly afflicted with the knowledge that once more the troublesome “Bransford” signature had placed him in a dilemma.

  Undoubtedly Maison, Silverthorn, and Dale were confederates in this matter, and Dale’s insistence that he sign the register claim was a mere subterfuge to obtain a copy of the Bransford signature in order to make trouble for him. It occurred to Sanderson that the men suspected him, and he grinned coldly as he raised his eyes to Maison.

  Maison was watching him, keenly; and his flush when he saw Sanderson looking at him convinced the latter that his suspicions were not without foundation.

  If Sanderson could have known that he had hardly left the hotel when a man whispered to Maison; and that Maison had said to the man: “All right, I’ll go down and wait for him,” Sanderson could not have more accurately interpreted Maison’s flush.

  Sanderson’s grin grew grim. “It’s a frame-up,” he told himself. His grin grew saturnine. He got up, folded the withdrawal blank and stuck it in a pocket.

  “I’m leavin’ the money here tonight,” he said. “For a man that ain’t been to town in a long while, there’d be too many temptations yankin’ at me.”

  He went out, leaving Maison to watch him from a window, a flush of chagrin on his face.

  Sanderson walked down the street toward the hotel. He would have Owen sign the withdrawal blank before morning—that would defeat Maison’s plan to gain evidence of the impersonation.

  Sanderson had not been gone from Silverthorn’s office more than five minutes when Dale entered. Silverthorn was sitting at his desk scowling, his face pale with big, heavy lines in it showing the strain of his interview with Sanderson.

  “Bransford’s been here!” guessed Dale, looking at Silverthorn.

  Silverthorn nodded, cursing.

  “You don’t need to feel conceited,” laughed Dale; “he’s been to see me, too.”

  Dale related what had happened on the street some time before, and Silverthorn’s scowl deepened.

  “There are times when you don’t seem to be able to think at all, Dale!” he declared. “After this, when you decide to do a thing, see me first—or Maison. The last thing we want to happen right now is to have this fake Bransford killed.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve just got word from Las Vegas that he’s submitted his affidavit establishing his identity, and that the court has accepted it. That settles the matter until—or unless—we can get evidence to the contrary. And if he dies without us getting that evidence we are through.”

  “Him dyin’ would make things sure for us,” contended Dale. “Mary Bransford wouldn’t have any claim—us havin’ proof that she ain’t a Bransford.”

  “This fellow is no fool,” declared Silverthorn. “Suppose he’s wise to us, which he might be, and he has willed the property to the girl. Where would we be, not being able to prove that he isn’t Will Bransford?”

  Dale meditated. Then he made a wry face. “That’s right,” he finally admitted. He made a gesture of futility. “I reckon I’ll let you do the plannin’ after this.”

  “All right,” said Silverthorn, mollified. “Have you set Morley on Barney Owen?”

  “Owen was goin’ right strong a few minutes after this Bransford guy left him,” grinned Dale.

  “All right,” said Silverthorn, “go ahead the way we planned it. But don’t have our friend killed.”

  When Sanderson entered the hotel the clerk was alone in the office pondering over the register.

  Dusk had fallen, and the light in the office was rather dim. Through the archway connecting the office with the saloon came a broad beam of light from a number of kerosene lamps. From beyond the archway issued the buzz of voices and the clink of glasses; peering through the opening Sanderson could see that the barroom was crowded.

  Sanderson mounted the stairs leading from the office. When he had left Owen, the latter
had told Sanderson that it was his intention to spend the time until the return of his friend in reading.

  Owen, however, was not in the room. Sanderson descended the stairs, walked to the archway that led into the saloon, and looked inside. In a rear corner of the barroom he saw Owen, seated at a table with several other men. Owen’s face was flushed; he was talking loudly and extravagantly.

  Sanderson remembered what Owen had told him concerning his appetite for strong liquor, he remembered, too, that Owen was in possession of a secret which, if divulged, would deliver Mary Bransford into the hands of her enemies.

  Sanderson’s blood rioted with rage and disgust. He crossed the barroom and stood behind Owen. The latter did not see him. One of the men with Owen did see Sanderson, though, and he looked up impudently, and smilingly pushed a filled glass of amber-colored liquor toward Owen.

  “You ain’t half drinkin’, Owen,” he said.

  Sanderson reached over, took the glass, threw its contents on the floor and grasped Owen by the shoulder. His gaze met the tempter’s, coldly.

  “My friend ain’t drinkin’ no more tonight,” he declared.

  The tempter sneered, his body stiffening.

  “He ain’t, eh?” he grinned, insolently. “I reckon you don’t know him; he likes whisky as a fish likes water.”

  Several men in the vicinity guffawed loudly.

  Owen was drunk. His hair was rumpled, his face was flushed, and his eyes were bleared and wide with an unreasoning, belligerent light as he got up, swaying unsteadily, and looked at Sanderson.

  “Not drink any more?” he demanded loudly. “Who says I can’t? I’ve got lots of money, and there’s lots of booze here. Who says I can’t drink any more?”

  And now, for the first time, he seemed to realize that Sanderson stood before him. But the knowledge appeared merely to increase his belligerence to an insane fury. He broke from Sanderson’s restraining grasp and stood off, reeling, looking at Sanderson with the grin of a satyr.

  “Look who’s telling me I can’t drink any more!” he taunted, so that nearly every man in the room turned to look at him, “It’s my guardian angel gentlemen—Will Bransford, of the Double A! Will Bransford—ha, ha, ha! Will Bransford! Come an’ look at him, gentlemen! Says I can’t drink any more booze. He’s running the Double A, Bransford is. There’s a lot I could tell you about Bransford—a whole lot! He ain’t—”

  His maudlin talk broke off short, for Sanderson had stepped to his side and placed a hand over his mouth. Owen struggled, broke away, and shouted:

  “Damn you, let me alone! I’m going to tell these people who you are. You’re—”

  Again his talk was stilled. This time the method was swift and certain. Sanderson took another step toward him and struck. His fist landed on Owen’s jaw, resounding with a vicious smack! in the sudden silence that had fallen, and Owen crumpled and sank to the floor in an inert heap.

  Sanderson was bending over him, preparing to carry him to his room, when there came an interruption. A big man, with a drawn six-shooter, stepped to Sanderson’s side. A dozen more shoved forward and stood near him, the crowd moving back, Sanderson sensed the movement and stood erect, leaving Owen still on the floor. One look at the hostile faces around him convinced Sanderson that the men were there by design.

  He grinned mirthlessly into the face of the man with the drawn pistol.

  “Frame-up, eh?” he said. “What’s the game?”

  “You’re wanted for drawin’ a gun on Dave Silverthorn—in his office. I’m a deputy sheriff, an’ I’ve got a warrant for you. Want to see it?”

  Sanderson did not answer. Here was a manifestation of Dale’s power and cupidity.

  The charge was a mere subterfuge, designed to deprive him of his liberty. Sanderson had no intention of submitting.

  The deputy saw resistance in the gleam of Sanderson’s eyes, and he spoke sharply, warningly:

  “Don’t try any funny business; I’ve a dozen men here!”

  Sanderson laughed in his face. He lunged forward, striking bitterly with the movement. The deputy’s body doubled forward—Sanderson’s fist had been driven into his stomach. His gun clattered to the floor; he reached out, trying to grasp Sanderson, who evaded him and struck upward viciously.

  The deputy slid to the floor, and Sanderson stood beside the table, his gun menacing the deputy’s followers.

  Sanderson had worked fast. Possibly the deputy’s men had anticipated no resistance from Sanderson, or they had been stunned with the rapidity with which he had placed their leader out of action.

  Not one of them had drawn a weapon. They watched Sanderson silently as he began to back away from them, still covering them with his pistol.

  Sanderson had decided to desert Owen; the man had proved a traitor, and could not expect any consideration. Owen might talk—Sanderson expected he would talk; but he did not intend to jeopardize his liberty by staying to find out.

  He stepped backward cautiously, for he saw certain of the men begin to move restlessly. He cautioned them, swinging the muzzle of his pistol back and forth, the crowd behind him splitting apart as he retreated.

  He had gone a dozen steps when someone tripped him. He fell backward, landing on his shoulders, his right elbow striking hard on the board floor and knocking the pistol out of his hand.

  He saw the men surge forward, and he made a desperate effort to get to his feet. But he did not succeed. He was on his knees when several men, throwing themselves at him, landed on top of him. Their combined weight crushed him to the floor, but he squirmed out of the mass and got to his feet, striking at the faces he saw around him, worrying the men hither and yon, dragging them with him as he reeled under savage blows that were rained on him.

  He had torn himself almost free; one man still clung to him, and he was trying to shake the fellow off, that he might hit him effectively, when a great weight seemed to fall on his head, blackness surrounded him, and he pitched face down on the floor.

  CHAPTER XIV

  TEE VOICE OF THE COYOTE

  When Sanderson regained consciousness he was lying on his back on a board floor. His head seemed to have been smashed, he was dizzy and weak, but he sat up and looked around him.

  Then he grinned wanly.

  He was in jail. A heavy, barred door was in front of him; turning his head he saw an iron-grated window behind him. Door and window were set in heavy stone walls; two other stone walls, with a narrow iron cot set against one of them, rose blankly on either side.

  Sanderson got up, reeling, and went to the window. Darkness had come; he could see Okar’s lights flickering and winking at him from the buildings that skirted the street. Various sounds reached his ears—Okar’s citizens were enjoying themselves.

  Sanderson did not watch the lights long. He walked to the cot, seated himself on its edge, rested his elbows on his knees and his chin in the upturned palms of his hands and reflected on what had occurred to him.

  Remembering the four thousand dollars in bills of large denomination that Burroughs had paid him when leaving the Pig-Pen, his hand went to the money belt around his waist.

  Belt and money were gone!

  Sanderson got up again, walked to the door and called.

  A heavy-featured man slouched down the corridor and halted near the door.

  “Awake, eh?” he grinned. “Dale sure did hand it to you—now, didn’t he? Well,” he added as Sanderson’s lips straightened at his words, “what’s eatin’ you?”

  “I had a belt with some money in it—four thousand. What’s become of it?”

  “Four thousand!” the man jeered. “That bump on the head is still affectin’ you, I reckon. Four thousand—shucks!” He laughed. “Well, I ain’t seen it—if that’s any consolation to you. If you’d had it when you come here I’d sure seen it.”

  “Who brought me here?”

  “Dale and his first deputy—the guy you poked in the stummick, over in the Okar Hotel. They tell me you fi’t like hell! W
hat’s Dale got ag’in’ you? Be sure was some het up about you.”

  Sanderson did not answer. He turned his back to the jailer and walked to the cot, again sitting on its edge. He heard the jailer sniff contemptuously, but he paid no attention to him.

  Prominent in Sanderson’s thoughts was the realization that Dale had taken his money. He knew that was the last of it—Dale would not admit taking it. Sanderson had intended to use the four thousand on the Double A irrigation project. The sum, together with the three thousand he meant to draw from the Okar bank, would have been enough to make a decent start.

  Sanderson had some bitter thoughts as he sat on the edge of the cot, all of them centering around Dale, Silverthorn, Maison, Owen, Mary Bransford, and himself. He realized that he had been defeated in the first clash with the forces opposed to him, that Owen had turned traitor, that Mary Bransford’s position now was more precarious than it had been before his coming, and that he had to deal with resourceful, desperate, and unscrupulous men.

  And yet, sitting there at the edge of the cot, Sanderson grinned. The grin did not make his face attractive, for it reflected something of the cold, bitter humor and savage passion that had gripped his soul.

  At noon the next day Sanderson, looking out of the window of his cell; heard a sound at the door. He turned, to see Silverthorn standing in the corridor.

  Silverthorn smiled blandly at him.

  “Over it, I see,” he said. “They used you rather roughly, eh? Well, they tell me you made them step some.”

  Sanderson deliberately turned his back and continued to look out of the window.

  “On your dignity, eh?” sneered Silverthorn. “Well, let me tell you something. We’ve heard a lot about you—from Dal Colton and Barney Owen. Morley—one of our men—got Owen soused last night, as per orders, and Owen spilled his knowledge of you all over the town. It’s pretty well known, now, that you are Deal Sanderson, from down Tombstone way.

  “I don’t know what your game was, but I think it’s pretty well queered by now. I suppose you had some idea of impersonating Bransford, hoping to get a slice of the property. I don’t blame you for trying. It was up to us to see that you didn’t get away with it.