The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack

by Charles Alden Seltzer

  “I ain’t reckonin’ to. I’ll be with you in a jiffy!” He vanished into the cabin, reappeared, ran to the stable, and rode out to meet Trevison. Together they were swallowed up by the plains.

  At eight o’clock in the morning Corrigan came out of the dining-room of his hotel and stopped at the cigar counter. He filled his case, lit one, and stood for a moment with an elbow on the glass of the show case, smoking thoughtfully.

  “That was quite an accident you had at your mine. Have you any idea who did it?” asked the clerk, watching him furtively.

  Corrigan glanced at the man, his lips curling.

  “You might guess,” he said through his teeth.

  “That fellow Trevison is a bad actor,” continued the clerk. “And say,” he went on, confidentially; “not that I want to make you feel bad, but the majority of the people of this town are standing with him in this deal. They think you are not giving the land-owners a square deal. Not that I’m ‘knocking’ you,” the clerk denied, flushing at the dark look Corrigan threw him. “That’s merely what I hear. Personally, I’m for you. This town needs men like you, and it can get along without fellows like Trevison.”

  “Thank you,” smiled Corrigan, disgusted with the man, but feeling that it might be well to cultivate such ingratiating interest. “Have a cigar.”

  “I’ll go you. Yes, sir,” he added, when he had got the weed going; “this town can get along without any Trevisons. These sagebrush rummies out here give me a pain. What this country needs is less brute force and more brains!” He drew his shoulders erect as though convinced that he was not lacking in the particular virtue to which he had referred.

  “You are right,” smiled Corrigan, mildly. “Brains are all important. A hotel clerk must be well supplied. I presume you see and hear a great many things that other people miss seeing and hearing.” Corrigan thought this thermometer of public opinion might have other information.

  “You’ve said it! We’ve got to keep our wits about us. There’s very little escapes us.” He leered at Corrigan’s profile. “That’s a swell Moll in number eleven, ain’t it?”

  “What do you know about her?” Corrigan’s face was inexpressive.

  “Oh say now!” The clerk guffawed close to Corrigan’s ear without making the big man wink an eyelash. “You don’t mean to tell me that you ain’t on! I saw you steer to her room one night—the night she came here. And once or twice, since. But of course us hotel clerks don’t see anything! She is down on the register as Mrs. Harvey. But say! You don’t see any married women running around the country dressed like her!”

  “She may be a widow.”

  “Well, yes, maybe she might. But she shows speed, don’t she?” He whispered. “You’re a pretty good friend of mine, now, and maybe if I’d give you a tip you’d throw something in my way later on—eh?”

  “What?”

  “Oh, you might start a hotel here—or something. And I’m thinking of blowing this joint. This town’s booming, and it can stand a swell hotel in a few months.”

  “You’re on—if I build a hotel. Shoot!”

  The clerk leaned closer, whispering: “She receives other men. You’re not the only one.”

  “Who?”

  The clerk laughed, and made a funnel of one hand. “The banker across the street—Braman.”

  Corrigan bit his cigar in two, and slowly spat that which was left in his mouth into a cuspidor. He contrived to smile, though it cost him an effort, and his hands were clenched.

  “How many times has he been here?”

  “Oh, several.”

  “When was he here last?”

  “Last night.” The clerk laughed. “Looked half stewed when he left. Kinda hectic, too. Him and her must have had a tiff, for he left early. And after he’d gone—right away after—she sent one of the waiters out for a horse.”

  “Which way did she go?”

  “West—I watched her; she went the back way, from here.”

  Corrigan smiled and went out. The expression of his face was such as to cause the clerk to mutter, dazedly: “He didn’t seem to be a whole lot interested. I guess I must have sized him up wrong.”

  Corrigan stopped at his office in the bank, nodding curtly to Braman. Shortly afterward he got up and went to the courthouse. He had ordered Judge Lindman to issue a warrant for Carson the previous morning, and had intended to see that it was served. But a press of other matters had occupied his attention until late in the night.

  He tried the front door of the courthouse, to find it locked. The rear door was also locked. He tried the windows—all were fastened securely. Thinking the Judge still sleeping he went back to his office and spent an hour going over some correspondence. At the end of that time he visited the courthouse again. Angered, he went around to the side and burst the flimsy door in, standing in the opening, glowering, for the Judge’s cot was empty, and the Judge nowhere to be seen.

  Corrigan stalked through the building, cursing. He examined the cot, and discovered that it had been slept in. The Judge must have risen early. Obviously, there was nothing to do but to wait. Corrigan did that, impatiently. For a long time he sat in the chair at his desk, watching Braman, studying him, scowling, rage in his heart. “If he’s up to any dirty work, I’ll choke him until his tongue hangs out a yard!” was a mental threat that he repeated many times. “But he’s just mush-headed over the woman, I guess—he’s that kind of a fool!”

  At ten o’clock Corrigan jumped on his horse and rode out to the butte where the laborers were working, clearing away the debris from the explosion. No one there had seen Judge Lindman. Corrigan rode back to town, fuming with rage. Finding some of the deputies he sent them out to search for the Judge. One by one they came in and reported their failure. At six-thirty, after the arrival of the evening train from Dry Bottom, Corrigan was sitting at his desk, his face black with wrath, reading for the third or fourth time a letter that he had spread out on the desk before him:

  “Mr. Jefferson Corrigan:

  “I feel it is necessary for me to take a short rest. Recent excitement in Manti has left me very nervous and unstrung. I shall be away from Manti for about two weeks, I think. During my absence any pending litigation must be postponed, of course.”

  The letter was signed by Judge Lindman, and postmarked “Dry Bottom.”

  Corrigan got up after a while and stuffed the letter into a pocket. He went out, and when he returned, Braman had gone out also—to supper, Corrigan surmised. When the banker came in an hour later, Corrigan was still seated at his desk. The banker smiled at him, and Corrigan motioned to him.

  Corrigan’s voice was silky. “Where were you last night, Braman?”

  The banker’s face whitened; his thoughts became confused, but instantly cleared when he observed from the expression of the big man’s face that the question was, apparently, a casual one. But he drew his breath tremulously. One could never be sure of Corrigan.

  “I spent the night here—in the back room.”

  “Then you didn’t see the Judge last night—or hear him?”

  “No.”

  Corrigan drew the Judge’s letter from the pocket and passed it over to Braman, watching his face steadily as he read. He saw a quick stain appear in the banker’s cheeks, and his own lips tightened.

  The banker coughed before he spoke. “Wasn’t that a rather abrupt leave-taking?”

  “Yes—rather,” said Corrigan, dryly. “You didn’t hear him walking about during the night?”

  “No.”

  “You’re rather a heavy sleeper, eh? There is only a thin board partition between this building and the courthouse.”

  “He must have left after daylight. Of course, any noise he might have made after that I wouldn’t have noticed.”

  “No, of course not,” said Corrigan, passionlessly. “Well—he’s gone.” He seemed to have dismissed the matter from his mind and Braman sighed with relief. But he watched Corrigan narrowly during the remainder of the time he st
ayed in the office, and when he went out, Braman shook a vindictive fist at his back.

  “Worry, damn you!” he sneered. “I don’t know what was in Judge Lindman’s mind, but I hope he never comes back! That will help to repay you for that knockdown!”

  Corrigan went over to the Castle and ate supper. He was preoccupied and deliberate, for he was trying to weave a complete fabric out of the threads of Braman’s visits to Hester Harvey; Hester’s ride westward, and Judge Lindman’s abrupt departure. He had a feeling that they were in some way connected.

  At a little after seven he finished his meal, went upstairs and knocked at the door of Hester Harvey’s room. He stepped inside when she opened the door, and stood, both hands in the pockets of his trousers, looking at her with a smile of repressed malignance.

  “Nice night for a ride, wasn’t it?” he said, his lips parting a very little to allow the words to filter through.

  The woman flashed a quick, inquiring look at him, saw the passion in his eyes, the gleam of malevolent antagonism, and she set herself against it. For her talk with Trevison last night had convinced her of the futility of hope. She had gone out of his life as a commonplace incident slips into the oblivion of yesteryear. Worse—he had refused to recall it. It hurt her, this knowledge—his rebuff. It had aroused cold, wanton passions in her—she had become a woman who did not care. She met Corrigan’s gaze with a look of defiant mockery.

  “Swell. I enjoyed every minute of it. Won’t you sit down?”

  He held himself back, grinning coldly, for the woman’s look had goaded him to fury.

  “No,” he said; “I’ll stand. I won’t be here a minute. You saw Trevison last night, eh? You warned him that I was going to have Carson arrested.” He had hazarded this guess, for it had seemed to him that it must be the solution to the mystery, and when he caught the quick, triumphant light in the woman’s eyes at his words he knew he had not erred.

  “Yes,” she said; “I saw him, and I told him—what Braman told me.” She saw his eyes glitter and she laughed harshly. “That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it, Jeff—what Braman told me? Well, you know it. I knew you couldn’t play square with me. You thought you could dupe me—again, didn’t you? Well, you didn’t, for I snared Braman and pumped him dry. He’s kept me posted on your movements; and his little board telephone—Ha, ha! that makes you squirm, doesn’t it? But it was all wasted effort—Trevison won’t have me—he’s through. And I’m through. I’m not going to try any more. I’m going back East, after I get rested. You fight it out with Trevison. But I warn you, he’ll beat you—and I wish he would! As for that beast, Braman, I wish—Ah, let him go, Jeff,” she advised, noting the cold fury in his eyes.

  “That’s all right,” he said with a dry laugh. “You and Braman have done well. It hasn’t done me any harm, and so we’ll forget about it. What do you say to having a drink—and a talk. As in old times, eh?” He seemed suddenly to have conquered his passion, but the queer twitching of his lips warned the woman, and when he essayed to move toward her, smiling pallidly, she darted to the far side of a stand near the center of the room, pulled out a drawer, produced a small revolver and leveled it at him, her eyes wide and glittering with menace.

  “Stay where you are, Jeff!” she ordered. “There’s murder in your heart, and I know it. But I don’t intend to be the victim. I’ll shoot if you come one step nearer!”

  He smirked at her, venomously. “All right,” he said. “You’re wise. But get out of town on the next train.”

  “I’ll go when I get ready—you can’t scare me. Let me alone or I’ll go to Rosalind Benham and let her in on the whole scheme.”

  “Yes you will—not,” he laughed. “If I know anything about you, you won’t do anything that would give Miss Benham to Trevison.”

  “That’s right; I’d rather see her married to you—that would be the refinement of cruelty!”

  He laughed sneeringly and stepped out of the door. Waiting a short time, the woman heard his step in the hall. Then she darted to the door, locked it, and leaned against it, panting.

  “I’ve done it now,” she murmured. “Braman—Well, it serves him right!”

  * * * *

  Corrigan stopped in the barroom and got a drink. Then he walked to the front door and stood in it for an instant, finally stepping down into the street. Across the street in the banking room he saw a thin streak of light gleaming through a crevice in the doorway that led from the banking room to the rear. The light told him that Braman was in the rear room. Selecting a moment when the street in his vicinity was deserted, Corrigan deliberately crossed, standing for a moment in the shadow of the bank building, looking around him. Then he slipped around the building and tapped cautiously on the rear door. An instant later he was standing inside the room, his back against the door. Braman, arrayed as he had been the night before, had opened the door. He had been just ready to go when he heard Corrigan’s knock.

  “Going out, Croft?” said Corrigan pleasantly, eyeing the other intently. “All lit up, too! You’re getting to be a gay dog, lately.”

  There was nothing in Corrigan’s bantering words to bring on that sudden qualm of sickening fear that seized the banker. He knew it was his guilt that had done it—guilt and perhaps a dread of Corrigan’s rage if he should learn of his duplicity. But that word “lately”! If it had been uttered with any sort of an accent he might have been suspicious. But it had come with the bantering ring of the others, with no hint of special significance. And Braman was reassured.

  “Yes, I’m going out.” He turned to the mirror on the wall. “I’m getting rather stale, hanging around here so much.”

  “That’s right, Croft. Have a good time. How much money is there in the safe?”

  “Two or three thousand dollars.” The banker turned from the glass. “Want some? Ha, ha!” he laughed at the other’s short nod; “there are other gay dogs, I guess! How much do you want?”

  “All you’ve got?”

  “All! Jehoshaphat! You must have a big deal on tonight!”

  “Yes, big,” said Corrigan evenly. “Get it.”

  He followed the banker into the banking room, carefully closing the door behind him, so that the light from the rear room could not penetrate. “That’s all right,” he reassured the banker as the latter noticed the action; “this isn’t a public matter.”

  He stuffed his pockets with the money the banker gave him, and when the other tried to close the door of the safe he interposed a restraining hand, laughing:

  “Leave it open, Croft. It’s empty now, and a cracksman trying to get into it would ruin a perfectly good safe, for nothing.”

  “That’s right.”

  They went into the rear room again, Corrigan last, closing the door behind him. Braman went again to the glass, Corrigan standing silently behind him.

  Standing before the glass, the banker was seized with a repetition of the sickening fear that had oppressed him at Corrigan’s words upon his entrance. It seemed to him that there was a sinister significance behind Corrigan’s present silence. A tension came between them, portentous of evil. Braman shivered, but the silence held. The banker tried to think of something to say—his thoughts were rioting in chaos, a dumb, paralyzing terror had seized him, his lips stuck together, the facial muscles refusing their office. He dropped his hands to his sides and stared into the glass, noting the ghastly pallor that had come over his face—the dull, whitish yellow of muddy marble. He could not turn, his legs were quivering. He knew it was conscience—only that. And yet Corrigan’s ominous silence continued. And now he caught his breath with a shuddering gasp, for he saw Corrigan’s face reflected in the glass, looking over his shoulder—a mirthless smirk on it, the eyes cold, and dancing with a merciless and cunning purpose. While he watched, he saw Corrigan’s lips open:

  “Where’s the board telephone, Braman?”

  The banker wheeled, then. He tried to scream—the sound died in a gasping gurgle as Corrigan leaped and throt
tled him. Later, he fought to loosen the grip of the iron fingers at his throat, twisting, squirming, threshing about the room in his agony. The grip held, tightened. When the banker was quite still Corrigan put out the light, went into the banking room, where he scattered the papers and books in the safe all around the room. Then he twisted the lock off the door, using an iron bar that he had noticed in a corner when he had come in, and stepped out into the shadow of the building.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  FIRST PRINCIPLES

  Judge Lindman shivered, though a merciless, blighting sun beat down on the great stone ledge that spread in front of the opening, smothering him with heat waves that eddied in and out, and though the interior of the low-ceilinged chamber pulsed with the fetid heat sucked in from the plains generations before. The adobe walls, gray-black in the subdued light, were dry as powder and crumbling in spots, the stone floor was exposed in many places; there was a strange, sickening odor, as though the naked, perspiring bodies of inhabitants in ages past had soaked the walls and floor with the man-scent, and intervening years of disuse had mingled their musty breath with it. But for the presence of the serene-faced, steady-eyed young man who leaned carelessly against the wall outside, whose shoulder and profile he could see, the Judge might have yielded completely to the overpowering conviction that he was dreaming, and that his adventures of the past twelve hours were horrors of his imagination. But he knew from the young man’s presence at the door that his experience had been real enough, and the knowledge kept his brain out of the threatening chaos.

  Some time during the night he had awakened on his cot in the rear room of the courthouse to hear a cold, threatening voice warning him to silence. He had recognized the voice, as he had recognized it once before, under similar conditions. He had been gagged, his hands tied behind him. Then he had been lifted, carried outside, placed on the back of a horse, in front of his captor, and borne away in the darkness. They had ridden many miles before the horse came to a halt and he was lifted down. Then he had been forced to ascend a sharp slope; he could hear the horse clattering up behind them. But he had not been able to see anything in the darkness, though he felt he was walking along the edge of a cliff. The walk had ended abruptly, when his captor had forced him into his present quarters with a gruff admonition to sleep. Sleep had come hard, and he had done little of it, napping merely, sitting on the stone floor, his back against the wall, most of the time watching his captor. He had talked some, asking questions which his captor ignored. Then a period of oblivion had come, and he had awakened to the sunshine. For an hour he had sat where he was, looking out at his captor and blinking at the brilliant sunshine. But he had asked no questions since awakening, for he had become convinced of the meaning of all this. But he was intensely curious, now.