The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack

by Charles Alden Seltzer

  Looking up again, he saw that the grins on the faces of the people around him had grown broader—and several loud guffaws of laughter reached his ears. He looked at Marion Harlan, and saw a puzzled expression on her face. Carrington, too, was looking at him, and Parsons, whose smile was a smirk of perplexity.

  Taylor reddened with embarrassment. A resentment that grew swiftly to an angry intolerance, seized him. He straightened, squared his shoulders, thrust out his chin, and shoving his prisoners before him, took several long strides across the station platform.

  This movement brought him close to Marion Harlan and her friends, and his further progress was barred by a man who placed a hand against his chest.

  This man, too, was grinning. He seized Taylor’s shoulders with both hands and looked into his face, the grin on his own broad and expanding.

  “Welcome home—you old son-of-a-gun!” said the man.

  His grin was infectious and Taylor answered it, dropping his suitcase and looking the other straight in the eyes.

  “Norton,” he said, “what in hell is the cause of all this staring at me? Can’t a man leave town for a few days and come back without everybody looking at him as though he were a curiosity?”

  Norton—a tall, slender, sinewy man with broad shoulders—laughed aloud and deliberately winked at several interested citizens who had followed Taylor’s progress across the platform, and who now stood near him, grinning.

  “You are a curiosity, man. You’re the first mayor of this man’s town! Lordy,” he said to the surrounding faces, “he hasn’t tumbled to it yet!”

  The color left Taylor’s face; he stared hard at Norton; he gazed in bewilderment at the faces near him.

  “Mayor?” he said. “Why, good Lord, man, I wasn’t here yesterday!”

  “But your friends were!” yelped the delighted Norton. He raised his voice, so that it reached far into the crowd on the street:

  “He’s sort of fussed up, boys; this honor being conferred on him so sudden; but give him time and he’ll talk your heads off!” He leaned over to Taylor and whispered in his ear.

  “Grin, man, for God’s sake! Don’t stand there like a wooden man; they’ll think you don’t appreciate it! It’s the first time I ever saw you lose your nerve. Buck up, man; why, they simply swamped Danforth; wiped him clean off the map!”

  Norton was whispering more into Taylor’s ear, but Taylor could not follow the sequence of it, nor get a coherent meaning out of it. He even doubted that he heard Norton. He straightened, and looked around at the crowd that now was pressing in on him, and for the first time in his life he knew the mental panic and the physical sickness that overtakes the man who for the first time faces an audience whose eyes are focused on him.

  For a bag of gold as big as the mountains that loomed over the distant southern horizon he could not have said a word to the crowd. But he did succeed in grinning at the faces around him, and at that the crowd yelled.

  And just before the crowd closed in on him and he began to shake hands with his delighted supporters, he glanced at Marion Harlan. She was looking at him with a certain sober interest, though he was sure that back in her eyes was a sort of humorous malice—which had, however, a softening quality of admiration and, perhaps, gratitude.

  His gaze went from her to Carrington. The big man was watching him with a veiled sneer which, when he met Taylor’s eyes, grew open and unmistakable.

  Taylor grinned broadly at him, for now it occurred to him that he would be able to thwart Carrington’s designs of “getting hold of the reins.” His grin at Carrington was a silent challenge, and so the other interpreted it, for his sneer grew positively venomous.

  The girl caught the exchange of glances between them, for Taylor heard her say to Parsons, just before the noise of the crowd drowned her voice:

  “Now I know he overheard you!”

  Meanwhile, the two prisoners were standing near Taylor. Taylor had almost forgotten them. He was reminded of their presence when he saw Keats, the sheriff, standing near him. At just the instant Taylor looked at Keats, the latter was critically watching the prisoners.

  Keats and Taylor had had many differences of opinion, for the sheriff’s official actions had not merited nor received Taylor’s approval. Taylor’s attitude toward the man had always been that of good-natured banter, despite the disgust he felt for the man. And now, pursuing his customary attitude, Taylor called to him:

  “Specimens, eh! Picked them up at Toban’s this morning. They yearned to hold up the train. There were four, all together, but we had to put two out of business. I came pretty near forgetting them. If I hadn’t seen you just now, maybe I would have walked right off and left them here. Take them to jail, Keats.”

  Keats advanced. He met Taylor’s eyes and his lips curved with a sneer:

  “Pullin’ off a little grand-stand play, eh! Well, it’s a mighty clever idea. First you get elected mayor, an’ then you come in here, draggin’ along a couple of mean-lookin’ hombres, an’ say they’ve tried to hold up the train at Toban’s. It sounds mighty fishy to me!”

  Taylor laughed. He heard a chuckle behind him, and he turned, to see Carrington grinning significantly at Keats. Taylor’s eyes chilled as his gaze went from one man to the other, for the exchange of glances told him that between the men there was a common interest, which would link them together against him. And in the dead silence that followed Keats’s words, Taylor drawled, grinning coldly:

  “Meaning that I’m a liar, Keats?”

  His voice was gentle, and his shoulders seemed to droop a little as though in his mind was a desire to placate Keats. But there were men in Dawes who had seen Taylor work his guns, and these held their breath and began to shove backward. That slow, drooping of Taylor’s shoulders was a danger signal, a silent warning that Taylor was ready for action, swift and violent.

  And faces around Taylor whitened as the man stood there facing Keats, his shoulders drooping still lower, the smile on his face becoming one of cold, grim mockery.

  The discomfiture of Keats was apparent. Indecision and fear were in the set of his head—bowed a little; and a dread reluctance was in his shifting eyes and the pasty-white color of his face. It was plain that Keats had overplayed; he had not intended to arouse the latent tiger in Taylor; he had meant merely to embarrass him.

  “Meaning that I’m a liar, Keats?”

  Again Taylor’s voice was gentle, though this time it carried a subtle taunt.

  Desperately harried, Keats licked his hot lips and cast a sullen glance around at the crowd. Then his gaze went to Taylor’s face, and he drew a slow breath.

  “I reckon I wasn’t meanin’ just that,” he said.

  “Of course,” smiled Taylor; “that’s no way for a sheriff to act. Take them in, Keats,” he added, waving a hand at the prisoners; “it’s been so long since the sheriff of this county arrested a man that the jail’s gettin’ tired, yawning for somebody to get into it.”

  He turned his back on Keats and looked straight at Carrington:

  “Have you got any ideas along the sheriff’s line?” he asked.

  Carrington flushed and his lips went into a sullen pout. He did not speak, merely shaking his head, negatively.

  Keats’s glance at Taylor was malignant with hate; and Carrington’s sullen, venomous look was not unnoticed by the crowd. Keats stepped forward and seized the two prisoners, hustling them away, muttering profanely.

  And then Taylor was led away by Norton and a committee of citizens, leaving Carrington, the girl and Parsons alone on the platform.

  “Looks like we’re going to have trouble lining things up,” remarked Parsons. “Danforth—”

  “You shut up!” snapped Carrington. “Danforth’s an ass and so are you!”

  CHAPTER VI

  A MAN MAKES PLANS

  Within an hour after his arrival in Dawes, Carrington was sitting in the big front room of his suite in the Castle Hotel, inspecting the town.

  A bay win
dow projected over the sidewalk, and from a big leather chair placed almost in the center of the bay between two windows and facing a third, at the front, Carrington had a remarkably good view of the town.

  Dawes was a thriving center of activity, with reasons for its prosperity. Walking toward the Castle from the railroad station, Carrington had caught a glimpse of the big dam blocking the constricted neck of a wide basin west of the town—and farther westward stretched a vast agricultural section, level as a floor, with a carpet of green slumbering in the white sunlight, and dotted with young trees that seemed almost ready to bear.

  There were many small buildings on the big level, some tenthouses, and straight through the level was a wide, sparkling stream of water, with other and smaller streams intersecting it. These streams were irrigation ditches, and the moisture in them was giving life to a vast section of country that had previously been arid and dead.

  But Carrington’s interest had not been so much for the land as for the method of irrigation. To be sure, he had not stopped long to look, but he had comprehended the system at a glance. There were locks and flumes and water-gates, and plenty of water. But the irrigation company had not completed its system. Carrington intended to complete it.

  Dawes was two years old, and it had the appearance of having been hastily constructed. Its buildings were mostly of frame—even the Castle, large and pretentious, and the town’s aristocrat of hostelries, was of frame. Carrington smiled, for later, when he had got himself established, he intended to introduce an innovation in building material.

  The courthouse was a frame structure. It was directly across the street from the Castle, and Carrington could look into its windows and see some men at work inside at desks. He had no interest in the post office, for that was of the national government—and yet, perhaps, after a while he might take some interest in that.

  For Carrington’s vision, though selfish, was broad. A multitude of men of the Carrington type have taken bold positions in the eternal battle for progress, and all have contributed something toward the ultimate ideal. And not all have been scoundrels.

  Carrington’s vision, however, was blurred by the mote of greed. Dawes was flourishing; he intended to modernize it, but in the process of modernization he intended to be the chief recipient of the material profits.

  Carrington had washed, shaved himself, and changed his clothes; and as he sat in the big leather chair in the bay, overlooking the street, he looked smooth, sleek, and capable.

  He had seemed massive in the Pullman, wearing a traveling suit of some light material, and his corpulent waist-line had been somewhat accentuated.

  The blue serge suit he wore now made a startling change in his appearance. It made his shoulders seem broader; it made the wide, swelling arch of his chest more pronounced, and in inverse ratio it contracted the corpulent waist-line—almost eliminating it.

  Carrington looked to be what he was—a big, virile, magnetic giant of a man in perfect health.

  He had not been sitting in the leather chair for more than fifteen minutes when there came a knock on a door behind him.

  “Come!” he commanded.

  A tall man entered, closed the door behind him and with hat in hand stood looking at Carrington with a half-smile which might have been slightly diffident, or impudent or defiant—it was puzzling.

  Carrington had twisted in his chair to get a glimpse of his visitor; he now grunted, resumed his former position and said, gruffly:

  “Hello, Danforth!”

  Danforth stepped over to the bay, and without invitation drew up a chair and seated himself near Carrington.

  Danforth was slender, big-framed, and sinewy. His shoulders were broad and his waist slim. There was a stubborn thrust to his chin; his nose was a trifle too long to perfectly fit his face; his mouth a little too big, and the lips too thin. The nose had a slight droop that made one think of selfishness and greed, and the thin lips, with a downward swerve at the corners, suggested cruelty.

  These defects, however, were not prominent, for they were offset by a really distinguished head with a mass of short, curly hair that ruffled attractively under the brim of the felt hat he wore.

  The hat was in his right hand, now, but it had left its impress on his hair, and as he sat down he ran his free hand through it. Danforth knew where his attractions were.

  He grinned shallowly at Carrington when the latter turned and looked at him.

  He cleared his throat. “I suppose you’ve heard about it?”

  “I couldn’t help hearing.” Carrington scowled at the other. “What in hell was wrong? We send you out here, give you more than a year’s time and all the money you want—which has been plenty—and then you lose. What in the devil was the matter?”

  “Too much Taylor,” smirked the other.

  “But what else?”

  “Nothing else—just Taylor.”

  Carrington exclaimed profanely.

  “Why, the man didn’t even know he was a candidate! He was on the train I came in on!”

  “It was Neil Norton’s scheme,” explained Danforth. “I had him beaten to a frazzle. I suppose he knew it. Two days before election he suddenly withdrew his name and substituted Taylor’s. You know what happened. He licked me two to one. He was too popular for me—damn him!

  “Norton owns a newspaper here—the only one in the county—the Eagle.”

  “Why didn’t you buy him?”

  Danforth grinned sarcastically: “I didn’t feel that reckless.”

  “Honest, eh?”

  Carrington rested his chin in the palm of his right hand and scowled into the street. He was convinced that Danforth had done everything he could to win the election, and he was bitterly chagrined over the result. But that result was not the dominating thought in his mind. He kept seeing Taylor as the latter had stood on the station platform, stunned with surprise over the knowledge that he had been so signally honored by the people of Dawes.

  And Carrington had seen Marion Harlan’s glances at the man; he had been aware of the admiring smile she had given Taylor; and bitter passion gripped Carrington at the recollection of the smile.

  More—he had seen Taylor’s face when the girl had smiled. The smile had thrilled Taylor—it had held promise for him, and Carrington knew it.

  Carrington continued to stare out into the street. Danforth watched him furtively, in silence.

  At last, not opening his lips, Carrington spoke:

  “Tell me about this man, Taylor.”

  “Taylor owns the Arrow ranch, in the basin south of here. His ranch covers about twenty thousand acres. He has a clear title.

  “According to report, he employs about thirty men. They are holy terrors—that is, they are what is called ‘hard cases,’ though they are not outlaws by any means. Just a devil-may-care bunch that raises hell when it strikes town. They swear by Taylor.”

  So far as Carrington could see, everybody in Dawes swore by Taylor. Carrington grimaced.

  “That isn’t what I want to know,” he flared. “How long has he been here; what kind of a fellow is he?”

  “Taylor owned the Arrow before Dawes was founded. When the railroad came through it brought with it some land-sharks that tried to frame up on the ranch-owners in the vicinity. It was a slick scheme, they tell me. They had clouded every title, and figured to grab the whole county, it seems.

  “Taylor went after them. People I’ve talked with here say it was a dandy shindy while it lasted. The land-grabbers brought the courts in, and a crooked judge. Taylor fought them, crooked judge and all, to a bite-the-dust finish. Toward the end it was a free-for-all—and the land-grabbers were chased out of the county.

  “Naturally, the folks around here think a lot of Taylor for the part he played in the deal. Besides that, he’s a man that makes friends quickly—and holds them.”

  “Has Taylor any interests besides his ranch?”

  “A share in the water company, I believe. He owns some land in town; and
he is usually on all the public committees here.”

  “About thirty, isn’t he?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  Carrington looked at the other with a sidelong, sneering grin:

  “Have any ladies come into his young life?”

  Danforth snickered. “You’ve got me—I hadn’t inquired. He doesn’t seem to be much of a ladies’ man, though, I take it. Doesn’t seem to have time to monkey with them.”

  “H-m!” Carrington’s lips went into a pout as he stared straight ahead of him.

  Danforth at last broke a long silence with:

  “Well, we got licked, all right. What’s going to happen now? Are you going to quit?”

  “Quit?” Carrington snapped the word at the other, his eyes flaming with rage. Then he laughed, mirthlessly, resuming: “This defeat was unexpected; I wasn’t set for it. But it won’t alter things—very much. I’ll have to shake a leg, that’s all. What time does the next train leave here for the capital?”

  “At two o’clock this afternoon.” Danforth’s eyes widened as he looked at Carrington. The curiosity in his glance caused Carrington to laugh shortly.

  “You don’t mean that the governor is in this thing?” said Danforth.

  “Why not?” demanded Carrington. “Bah! Do you think I came in with my eyes closed!”

  There was a new light in Danforth’s eyes—the flame of renewed hope.

  “Then we’ve still got a chance,” he declared.

  Carrington laughed. “A too-popular mayor is not a good thing for a town,” he said significantly.

  CHAPTER VII