The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack

by Charles Alden Seltzer

  Taylor’s first quick glance about the interior of the courthouse showed him Carrington. The latter was sitting in an armchair near a window toward the rear of the room. He smiled as Taylor’s glance swept him, but Taylor might not have seen the smile. For Taylor was deeply interested in other things.

  A conception of the serious responsibility that he was to accept assailed him. Until now the thing had been entirely personal; his thoughts had centered upon the honor that was to be his—his friends had selected him for an important position. And yet Taylor was not vain.

  Now, however, ready to accept the oath of office, he realized that he was to become the servant of the municipality; that these friends of his had elected him not merely to honor him but because they trusted him, because they were convinced that he would administer the affairs of the young town capably and in a fair and impartial manner. They depended upon him for justice, advice, and guidance.

  All these things, to be sure, Taylor would give them to the best of his ability. They must have known that or they would not have elected him.

  These thoughts sobered him as he walked to the little wooden railing in front of the judge’s desk; and his face was grave as he looked at the other.

  “I am ready to take the oath, Judge Littlefield,” he gravely announced.

  Glancing sidewise, Taylor saw that a great many men had come into the room. He did not turn to look at them, however, for he saw a gleam in Judge Littlefield’s eyes that held his attention.

  “That will not be necessary, Mr. Taylor,” he heard the judge say. “The governor, through the attorney-general, has ruled you were not legally elected to the office you aspire to. Only last night I was notified of the decision. It was late, or I should have taken steps to apprise you of the situation.”

  Taylor straightened. He heard exclamations from many men in the room; he was conscious of a tension that had come into the atmosphere. Some men scuffled their feet; and then there was a deep silence.

  Taylor smiled without mirth. His dominant emotion was curiosity.

  “Not legally elected?” he said. “Why?”

  The judge passed a paper to Taylor; it was one of those that had been delivered to the judge by Carrington.

  The judge did not meet Taylor’s eyes.

  “You’ll find a full statement of the case, there,” he said. “Briefly, however, the governor finds that your name did not appear on the ballots.”

  Norton, who had been standing at Taylor’s side all along, now shoved his way to the railing and leaned over it, his face white with wrath.

  “There’s something wrong here, Judge Littlefield!” he charged. “Taylor’s name was on every ballot that was counted for him. I personally examined every ballot!”

  The judge smiled tolerantly, almost benignantly.

  “Of course—to be sure,” he said. “Mr. Taylor’s name appeared on a good many ballots; his friends wrote it, with pencil, and otherwise. But the law expressly states that a candidate’s name must be printed. Therefore, obeying the letter of the law, the governor has ruled that Mr. Taylor was not elected.” There was malicious satisfaction in Judge Littlefield’s eyes as they met Taylor’s. Taylor could see that the judge was in entire sympathy with the influences that were opposing him, though the judge tried, with a grave smile, to create an impression of impartiality.

  “Under the governor’s ruling, therefore,” he continued, “and acting under explicit directions from the attorney-general, I am empowered to administer the oath of office to the legally elected candidate, David Danforth. Now, if Mr. Danforth is in the courtroom, and will come forward, we shall conclude.”

  Mr. Danforth was in the courtroom; he was sitting near Carrington; and he came forward, his face slightly flushed, with the gaze of every person in the room on him.

  He smiled apologetically at Taylor as he reached the railing, extending a hand.

  “I’m damned sorry, Taylor,” he declared. “This is all a surprise to me. I hadn’t any doubt that they would swear you in. No hard feelings?”

  Taylor had been conscious of the humiliation of his position. He knew that his friends would expect him to fight. And yet he felt more like gracefully yielding to the forces which had barred him from office upon the basis of so slight a technicality. And despite the knowledge that he had been robbed of the office, he would have taken Danforth’s hand, had he not at that instant chanced to glance at Carrington.

  The latter’s eyes were aglow with a vindictive triumph; as his gaze met Taylor’s, his lips curved with a sneer.

  A dark passion seized Taylor—the bitter, savage rage of jealousy. The antagonism he had felt for Carrington that day on the train when he had heard Carrington’s voice for the first time was suddenly intensified. It had been growing slowly, provoked by his knowledge of the man’s evil designs on Marion Harlan. But now there had come into the first antagonism a gripping lust to injure the other, a determination to balk him, to defeat him, to meet him on his own ground and crush him.

  For Carrington’s sneer had caused the differences between them to become sharply personal; it would make the fight that was brewing between the two men not a political fight, but a fight of the spirit.

  Taylor interpreted the sneer as a challenge, and he accepted it. His eyes gleamed with hatred unmistakable as they held Carrington’s; and the grin on his lips was the cold, unhumorous grin of the fighter who is not dismayed by odds. His voice was low and sharp, and it carried to every person in the room:

  “We won’t shake, Danforth; you are not particular enough about the character of your friends!”

  The look was significant, and it compelled the eyes of all of Taylor’s friends, so that Carrington instantly found himself the center of interest.

  However, he did not change color; on his face a bland smile testified to his entire indifference to what Taylor or Taylor’s friends thought of him.

  Taylor grinned mirthlessly at the judge, spoke shortly to Norton, and led the way out through the front door, followed by a number of his friends.

  Norton took Taylor into his office, adjoining the courthouse, and threw himself into a chair, grumbling profanely. Outside they could see the crowd filing down the street, voicing its opinion of the startling proceeding.

  “An election is an election,” they heard one man say—a Taylor sympathizer. “What difference does it make that Taylor’s name wasn’t printed? It’s a dawg-gone frame-up, that’s what it is!”

  But Danforth’s adherents were not lacking; and there were arguments in loud, vigorous language among men who passed the door of the Eagle office.

  “I could have printed the damned ballots, myself—if I had thought it necessary,” mourned Norton. “And now we’re skinned out of it!”

  Norton’s disgust was complete and bitter; he had slid down in the chair, his chin on his chest, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his trousers.

  Yet his dejection had not infected Taylor; the latter’s lips were curved in a faint smile, ironic and saturnine. It was plain to Norton that whatever humor there was in the situation was making its appeal to Taylor. The thought angered Norton, and he sat up, demanding sharply: “Well, what in hell are you going to do about it?”

  Taylor grinned at the other. “Nothing, now,” he said. “We might appeal to the courts, but if the law specifies that a candidate’s name must be printed, the courts would sustain the governor. It looks to me, Norton, as though Carrington and Danforth have the cards stacked.”

  Norton groaned and again slid down into his chair. He heard Taylor go out, but he did not change his position. He sat there with his eyes closed, profanely accusing himself, for he alone was to blame for the complete defeat that had descended upon his candidate; and he could not expect Taylor to fight a law which, though unjust and arbitrary, was the only law in the Territory.

  Taylor had not gone far. He stepped into the door of the courthouse, to meet Carrington, who was coming out. Danforth and Judge Littlefield were talking animat
edly in the rear of the room. They ceased talking when they saw Taylor, and faced toward him, looking at him wonderingly.

  Carrington halted just inside the threshold of the doorway, and he, too, watched Taylor curiously, though there was a bland, sneering smile on his face.

  Taylor’s smile as he looked at the men was still faintly ironic, and his eyes were agleam with a light that baffled the other men—they could not determine just what emotion they reflected.

  And Taylor’s manner was as quietly deliberate and nonchalant as though he had merely stepped into the room for a social visit. His gaze swept the three men.

  “Framing up—again, eh?” he said, with drawling emphasis. “You sure did a good job for a starter. I just stepped in to say a few words to you—all of you. To you first, Littlefield.” And now his eyes held the judge—they seemed to squint genially at the man.

  “I happen to know that our big, sleek four-flusher here”—nodding toward Carrington—“came here to loot Dawes. Quite accidentally, I overheard him boasting of his intentions. Danforth was sent here by Carrington more than a year ago to line things up, politically. I don’t know how many are in the game—and I don’t care. You are in it, Littlefield. I saw that by the delight you took in informing me of the decision of the attorney-general. I just stepped in to tell you that I know what is going on, and to warn you that you can’t do it! You had better pull out before you make an ass of yourself, Littlefield!”

  The judge’s face was crimson. “This is an outrage, Taylor!” he sputtered. “I’ll have you jailed for contempt of court!”

  “Not you!” gibed Taylor, calmly. “You haven’t the nerve! I’d like nothing better than to have you do it. You’re a little fuzzy dog that doesn’t crawl out of its kennel until it hears the snap of its master’s fingers! That’s all for you!”

  He grinned at Danforth, felinely, and the man flushed under the odd gleam in the eyes that held his.

  “I can classify you with one word, Dave,” he declared; “you’re a crook! That lets you out; you do what you are told!”

  He now ignored the others and faced Carrington.

  His grin faded quickly, the lips stiffening. But still there was a hint of cold humor in his manner that created the impression that he was completely in earnest; that he was keenly enjoying himself and that he did not feel at all tragic. And yet, underlying the mask of humor, Carrington saw the passionate hatred Taylor felt for him.

  Carrington sneered. He attempted to smile, but the malevolent bitterness of his passions turned the smile into a hideous smirk. He had hated Taylor at first sight; and now, with the jealousy provoked by the knowledge that Taylor had turned his eyes toward Marion Harlan, the hatred had become a lust to destroy the other.

  Before Taylor could speak, Carrington stepped toward him, thrusting his face close to Taylor’s. The man was in the grip of a mighty rage that bloated his face, that made his breath come in great labored gasps. He had not meant to so boldly betray his hatred, but the violence of his passions drove him on.

  He knew that Taylor was baiting him, mocking him, taunting him; that Taylor’s words to the judge and to Danforth had been uttered with the grimly humorous purpose of arousing the men to some unwise and precipitate action; he knew that Taylor was enjoying the confusion he had brought.

  But Carrington had lost his self-control.

  Without a word, but with a smothered imprecation that issued gutturally from between his clenched teeth, he swung a fist with bitter malignance at Taylor’s face.

  The blow did not land, for Taylor, self-possessed and alert, had been expecting it. He slipped his head sidewise slightly, evading the fist by a narrow margin, and, tensed, his muscles taut, he drove his own right fist upward, heavily.

  Carrington, reeling forward under the impetus of the force he had expended, ran fairly into the fist. It crashed to the point of his jaw and he was unconscious, rigid, and upright on his feet in the instant before he sagged and tumbled headlong out through the open doorway into the street.

  With a bound, his face set in a mirthless grin, Taylor was after him, landing beyond him in the windrowed dust at the edge of the sidewalk, ready and willing to administer further punishment.

  CHAPTER XIV

  THE FACE OF A FIGHTER

  Slouching in his chair, in an attitude of complete dejection, Neil Norton was glumly digesting the dregs of defeat.

  The Eagle office adjoined the courthouse. Both were one-story frame structures, flimsy, with one thin wall between them; and to Norton’s ears as he sat with his unpleasant thoughts, came the sound of voices, muffled, but resonant. Someone was speaking with force and insistence. Norton attuned his ears to the voice. It was then he discovered there was only one voice, and that Taylor’s.

  He sat erect, both hands gripping the arms of his chair. Then he got up, walked to the front door of the Eagle office, and looked out. He was just in time to see Carrington tumble out through the door of the courthouse and land heavily on the sidewalk in front of the building. Immediately afterward he saw Taylor follow.

  Norton exclaimed his astonishment, and he saw Taylor turn toward him, a broad, mirthless grin on his face.

  “Good Heavens!” breathed Norton, “he’s started a ruckus!”

  Taylor had not moved. He was looking at Norton when a man leaped from the door of the courthouse, straight at him. It was Danforth, his face hideous with rage.

  Taylor sensed the movement, wheeled, stumbled, and lost his balance just as Danforth crashed against him. The two men went down in a heap into the deep dust of the street, rolling over and over.

  Danforth’s impetus had given him the initial advantage, and he was making the most of it. His fists were working into Taylor’s face as they rolled in the dust, his arms swinging like flails. Taylor, caught almost unprepared, could not get into a position to defend himself. He shielded his face somewhat by holding his chin close to his chest and hunching his shoulders up; but Danforth landed some blows.

  There came an instant, however, when Taylor’s surprise over the assault changed to resentment over the punishment he was receiving. He had struck Carrington in self-defense, and he had not expected the attack by Danforth.

  Norton, also surprised, saw that his friend was at a disadvantage, and he was running forward to help him when he saw Taylor roll on top of Danforth.

  To Norton’s astonishment, Taylor did not seem to be in a vicious humor, despite the blows Danforth had landed on him. Taylor came out of the smother with a grin on his face, wide and exultant, and distinctly visible to Norton in spite of the streaks of dust that covered it. Taylor shook his head, his hair erupting a heavy cloud. Then he got up, permitting Danforth to do likewise.

  Regaining his feet, Danforth threw himself headlong toward Taylor, cursing, his face working with malignant rage. When Taylor hit him the dust flew from Danforth’s clothes as it rolls from a dirty carpet flayed with a beater. Danforth halted, his knees sagged, his head wabbled. But Taylor gave him a slight respite, and he came on again.

  This time Taylor met him with a smother of sharp, deadening uppercuts that threw the man backward, his mouth open, his eyes closed. He fell, sagging backward, his knees unjointed, without a sound.

  And now Norton was not the only spectator. Far up the street a man had emerged from a doorway. He saw the erupting volcanoes of dust in the street, and he ran back, shouting, “Fight! Fight!”

  Dawes had seen many fights, and had grown accustomed to them. But there is always novelty in another, and long before Danforth had received the blows that had rendered him inactive, nearly all the doors of Dawes’s buildings were vomiting men. They came, seemingly, in endless streams, in groups, in twos and singly, eager, excited, all the streams converging at the street in front of the courthouse.

  Mindful of the ethics in an affair of this kind, the crowd kept considerately at a distance, permitting the fighting men to continue at their work without interference, with plenty of room for their energetic movements.


  Word ran from lip to lip that Taylor, stung by the knowledge that he had been robbed of the office to which he had been elected, had attacked Carrington and Danforth with the grim purpose of punishing them personally for their misdeeds.

  Taylor was aware of the gathering crowd. When he had delivered the blows that had finished his political rival, he saw the dense mass of men in the street around him; and he felt that all Dawes had assembled.

  There was still no rancor in Taylor’s heart; the same savage humor which had driven him into the courthouse to acquaint Carrington and the others with his knowledge of their designs, still gripped him. He had not meant to force a fight, but neither had he any intention of permitting Carrington and Danforth to inflict physical punishment upon him.

  But a malicious devil had seized him. He knew that what he had done would be magnified and distorted by Carrington, Danforth, and the judge; that they would charge him with the blame for it; that he faced the probability of a jail sentence for defending himself. And he was determined to complete the work he had started.

  Therefore, having disposed of Danforth, he grinned at the eager, excited faces that hemmed him about, and wheeled toward Carrington.

  He was just in time. For Carrington, not badly hurt by Taylor’s blow, which had catapulted him out of the door of the courthouse, had been standing back a little, awaiting an opportunity. The swiftness of Taylor’s movements had prevented interference by Carrington; but now, with Danforth down, Carrington saw his chance.

  Without a word, Carrington lunged forward. They met with a shock that caused the dry dust to splay and spume upward and outward in thin, minute streaks like the leaping, spraying waters of a fountain. They were lost, momentarily, in a haze, as the dust fell and enveloped them.

  They emerged from the blot presently, Carrington staggering, his chin on his chest, his eyes glazed—Taylor crowding him closely. For while they had been lost in the smother of dust, Taylor had landed a deadening uppercut on the big man’s chin.

  The big man’s brain was befogged; and yet he still retained presence of mind enough to shield his chin from another of those terrific blows. He had crossed his arms over the lower part of his face, fending off Taylor’s fists with his elbows.