by T. T. Flynn
“At various times, Travis spoke frankly,” Campbell said stiffly. “Two years ago, it seems, Travis rode from his Wyoming ranch to Texas and brought back a trail herd. And found that while he had been gone, his new young wife had been massacred by Indians. The details were rather . . .”
“Get on with it!” came with such harshness that Campbell winced and glanced helplessly at the door.
“Travis’s life, he told me, had been centered in his wife. It had been truly a union of great love. Losing her . . . and in such a tragic manner . . . broke Travis. He wanted only to escape from his memories. He sold out for what he could get and banked the money with us and went to Central America, hardly expecting to return. But finally he realized that fleeing from grief was not a cure, and he came back.”
The visitor lifted the stained old hat and stared at it. A stony, sad look held his features for a moment. His comment sounded remote. “He told a good story. All of it the truth . . . only the wrong man came back and told it. I’m Roger Travis. Friends in Wyoming and Ohio can identify me.”
“By letter?” Campbell said.
“In person, if they must come here to San Francisco.”
“And who,” Campbell asked, “will identify such strangers if they should appear here?” The knock that Campbell had been expecting sounded on the closed door and his relief was great. “Some of the clerks,” Campbell said, hardening into his full accustomed authority, “are outside the door with police. I suggest that you go quietly with them.”
The visitor half turned to keep the door in sight. His glance at Campbell was almost curious. “You haven’t any intention of letting me identify myself? You’ll have me locked in jail while the fellow who’s stolen my money is out, free and undisturbed?”
“Your claims,” said Campbell shortly, “will be investigated.”
“While I’m in jail for as long as you care to keep me there? While your lawyers use their bags of tricks to discredit any friend who tries to identify me, and bolster your claim that I’m the thief? Don’t tell me your bank, or any bank, will admit almost a hundred thousand dollars was handed to the wrong man.”
Again the knuckles rapped on the door. Campbell held his tone firm. “Justice will be done.”
“Justice?” The visitor was quiet, too quiet, Campbell sensed. “What sort of justice for a thief who stole another man’s name and memories . . . and all his money?”
“A bank,” said Campbell, “is not the place . . .”
The quiet voice, edged and coldly speculative, demanded: “How much justice for stealing another man’s grief? What justice for using the love and agony of a dead girl to impress a whiskered jackass like you and make the stealing easier?”
The knocks became peremptory. Campbell said: “I’m afraid you’ll have to . . .”
The edged voice cut in: “And now you’ll jail me and try to prove me the thief while the real thief gets more time to leave a cold trail.”
Campbell met the man’s flinty stare in reluctant fascination. Slowly his hands closed on the arms of his chair. Fearing now for the door to open, Campbell sat in silent anguish, not sure what was going to happen and fearful for it to happen.
II
The stranger’s left hand had slipped into the pocket of his white coat. Mutely Campbell gazed at the sharp bulge a gun muzzle made in the side of the pocket. The bronzed stranger was suddenly hard and reckless-looking, plainly capable of any violence.
“We’ll walk out to my carriage.”
Campbell exhaled a soft sigh and stood up.
The bronzed stranger was at his side, hand in the coat pocket when Campbell opened the office door. Four clerks, concerned and excited, stared at them. A bulky, uniformed patrolman, his red-veined face flushed and damp from haste, gazed blankly.
The tall stranger, Campbell saw from the corner of his eye, was standing easily beside him, the hand lazily in the coat pocket, an infuriating, humorous smile directed toward the group.
“This is a mistake,” Campbell said thickly, and from habit he made it the clerks’ mistake.
Campbell stalked past the group into the busy banking room. The tall stranger strolled at his side and chuckled. “You might be dead by now, my pompous friend. Smile for all the nice people.”
Campbell felt apoplectic as he bowed, smiled to a matron whose ledger balances rarely fell under a quarter of a million. She would have been affronted if ignored. Tellers in the cages were gazing at them. Derision would spread through the bank, Campbell knew, when the truth of this was revealed.
Outside the bank, a polished carriage with liveried coachman waited at the curb. The stranger gave Campbell a quizzical look. “I suppose,” he said, “I’ve got you on my hands for a time. Get in.”
Helplessly Campbell looked at passing pedestrians. They ignored him. Mutely Campbell dropped on the carriage cushions, and shock struck him.
“Quist!” Campbell blurted.
The red-faced coachman grinned back uncertainly from his high seat. “Fine mornin’, sir.”
“This,” said Campbell thickly, “is the MacLanes’ carriage! You’re helping this man!”
“Well, now, you might say it was a friendly pickup, like,” said Quist vaguely and uncomfortably.
The bronzed stranger dropped on the seat beside Campbell and laughed. “Drive on, Howie, around the next corner.” And when Quist hesitated, the stranger added cheerfully: “You took the money, Howie. Nob Hill-style, remember?”
Quist’s backward glance weighed the bulge in the stranger’s coat pocket. “This,” Quist said dubiously as he faced forward, “is gonna learn me, I think.”
The sedately rolling carriage turned off Montgomery Street as the stranger asked Campbell a question. “Was a young man named Dick Kilgore mentioned in all this business?”
“Not that I recall,” Campbell said stiffly.
The thoughtful eyes estimated Campbell. “This fellow Travis may return. If he does, remember that the wrong man told the right story, and you were jackass enough to believe him.”
Campbell’s flush heated the roots of his close brown beard. He was hardly aware that a heavy, stained duffel bag on the floor was forcing him to sit awkwardly. Covertly, desperately he looked on both sides of the street for possible assistance.
A beefy patrolman was strolling leisurely on the opposite walk. Furtively Campbell glanced at the stranger beside him. The man’s sinewy hand was coming out of his coat pocket with a straight-stemmed pipe. The pocket now was flat, obviously empty. The derisive truth struck Campbell. A pipe, not a revolver. He had walked submissively out of the bank to the threat of a hidden pipe stem, not a gun.
Campbell swallowed, drew a breath, and hurled himself out of the carriage. He landed in a running stumble and reeled off-balance, dangerously close to an oncoming buggy horse. The horse swerved in fright and reared as Campbell’s frantic shout broke out under its head.
“Stop them! Stop that carriage! Stop it!”
Quist swiveled around and saw William Campbell stumbling, shouting under the head of the rearing horse. Quist reached instantly for the long buggy whip. The shout that Quist uttered had never been heard from a liveried Nob Hill coachman. It was a muleskinner’s bellow, urging the sleek, matched bays into a plunging run.
Leaning forward, plug hat tilted toward an eye, Quist skillfully drove the polished carriage in a weaving rush through the heavy street traffic. At the next corner, Quist’s shout and strong hands swung the team, hoofs clashing, carriage careening, into the cross street. At the next corner, Quist made another skidding turn.
The shouting voices and the patrolman’s keening whistle were far behind, lost for the moment, when Quist pulled the blowing team into a sedate trot and cast a harried look over his shoulder. His passenger, riding comfortably on the deep cushions, chuckled.
“Howie, that was worth another fiver. If we could come down Market Street every morning like that . . .”
Acidly Howie Quist said: “We ain’t comin’ do
wn any street like that! I try to make an honest dollar . . .”
“Five dollars,” the stranger corrected with amusement.
“Five, then,” said Howie Quist bitterly. “An’ I find myself helpin’ a stranger with a gun kidnap the cashier of the South Bay Bank.”
“What gun?”
Howie Quist stared back at the straight-stemmed pipe his passenger drew from the coat pocket. Howie blinked. “You took old Campbell outta his bank with that?”
“Had to use something.”
Howie Quist straightened his tall plug hat and held the team in a brisk trot around the next corner. “Who’ll believe it?” Howie complained bitterly. “Why’d you have to use anything?”
“You wouldn’t believe me.”
Grimly Howie said: “I’m gonna hear it, an’ it better be good.” He listened to the brief account his passenger gave, and, when he was through, Howie whistled softly. “That yarn’s too tall for me.”
Wryly his passenger said: “For me, too . . . but my money’s gone.”
“My job,” said Howie Quist sourly, “is gone. Who’ll believe I wasn’t helpin’ you? I’m halfway in the jug now.” When his passenger laughed softly, Howie looked back warily.
“No one would believe you, Howie, if I said you helped me,” the bronzed young stranger said cheerfully. “But if you help me get out of town, I’ll not have a chance to say anything.”
“Blackmail,” said Howie dourly. When his passenger chuckled again, Howie cautiously inquired: “Where was you minded to head for?”
“My partner was killed in Central America when a rock slide knocked our horses off a cliff trail into the river below,” his passenger began. “We’d sent money to his father in New Mexico to buy cattle for us and hold for the increase. That was in my journal, too, which Travis seems to have. He’s gotten everything possible of mine here in San Francisco. My guess is he probably headed for New Mexico where my cattle are.”
“It’s on the way to Texas,” Howie said, cheering slightly. After a moment’s thought, he added: “I got money in another bank, might be I could get out. They’re lookin’ now for the MacLanes’ carriage, but I got an idea might keep us outta the jug.”
Howie drove four more blocks, turning two corners, and pulled up abruptly beside a closed black public hack waiting at the curb.
“Terrance, old friend!” Howie greeted the hack driver with cordial surprise.
A grin of recognition lifted a black, drooping mustache. “Howie, lad! How goes?”
“You’d not believe,” Howie said with false heartiness. “That easy Nob Hill job you been wantin’ is yours, Terrance. I’m quittin’. Take the MacLanes’ carriage home now an’ the job’s yours.”
“Me hack, Howie? How can I?”
Without hesitation, Howie answered, “Your stable is on my way. I’ll leave the hack for you.”
Terrance visibly wavered, tugging at one side of his mustache. “What about your passenger there?”
“My new partner,” said Howie blandly.
“’Tis a good job,” Terrance conceded enviously. “Well . . . all right.”
Howie Quist was downcast as he stood beside the hack with his passenger and watched the MacLanes’ gleaming carriage roll away.
“Likely Terrance’ll get the job,” Howie guessed. “He has a gift of gab.” He turned to his new partner. “If there’s somethin’ else in that bag to wear, you better change in the hack while I’m drivin’. They’ll be lookin’ for that white suit. I’ll stop by my bank, an’ then my room.”
The stranger tossed the heavy duffel bag into the hack. His glance at Howie Quist was quizzical. “Howie, you don’t need to do this. We might not get out of San Francisco. If you’re caught with me, you are in trouble.”
A slow smile came on Howie Quist’s broad, weathered face. “Folks know the MacLanes’ coachman,” he said. “I’m tired of city life anyways, an’ I’m curious about this feller you say is you. I’d like to see him.”
Thoughtfully the bronzed stranger said: “He’s clever. He’s got the money now and he’s dangerous. Some way I’ll find him, but it might be best for you to keep clear of it.”
Howie’s grin broadened. “That one,” Howie said, “I mean to see.”
III
A thousand miles east and south of San Francisco, the man who had called himself Roger Travis for months rode leisurely into the busy, sun-drenched plaza of Soledad, in New Mexico Territory, cheerfully musing on his immense good fortune. He had been a drifter, seeking money through restless, roving years, and finding it elusive, until, in a steamy tropical clearing in distant Guatemala, he had found an illiterate native mozo discarding the papers of two dead men who had been swept off the trail by a rock slide. The mozo and pack mules had escaped.
Satisfied of the story’s truth, Travis had gone through the papers, and in the journal of a dead man’s life, a certificate of deposit in a San Francisco bank, and other papers, he had found suddenly the fortune he had so long sought. He had the keys to a dead man’s life, a dead man’s money. All that was needed was the will to gamble boldly. He had gambled and won; now Travis knew that anything was possible.
As he tied his horse to a hitch rack, Travis thought again of the man’s young wife who had been massacred by Indians in Wyoming. In the closely written pages of her husband’s journal, the young wife had come alive, vivid and real. She had been unafraid and laughing and her arms had been tender. All that and more was written in happiness and agony of grief in the husband’s journal. All of it had become his own life now, and he felt no guilt.
A triple hitch of mules and a groaning, high-sided ore wagon rolled heavily through the plaza. Travis lifted a friendly hand to the driver, and then noted a Franciscan priest in belted brown robe and leather sandals also crossing the plaza. Charity, Travis reflected with wry humor, never hurt a man’s luck. He was feeling expansive anyway over another bold gamble he had decided to make.
“¡Padre!” Travis called, and, when he reached the priest, he said: “Something for your church.”
The sun-browned Franciscan regarded the five yellow double eagles that Travis dropped into his palm. “You are generous, Mister Travis.” He had a slight accent.
Travis chuckled. “Do you keep tally on strangers in town?”
The priest’s smile came. “The talk of the country comes to church. You are Roger Travis, the partner of young Richard Kilgore when he was killed in Central America. You are visiting the Kilgore Ranch and have made many friends already.”
“You’re Father Philippe,” Travis said, chuckling again. “You came here from France four years ago. I heard it in the Bonanza Bar.”
Humor spread on Father Philippe’s thin face. “I should be talked about more often in such places.” He glanced at the gold coins and sobered. “Prayers will be offered for your intentions, Mister Travis. Is there someone you wish remembered?”
The kindly expectant look on the padre’s face reminded Travis of the man he was impersonating. “I lost my wife a little over two years ago,” he said sadly. It came easily now from his long, intent studies of the husband’s journal. “I called her Vicky,” Travis said. “Victoria Travis.”
“Your Vicky will be remembered,” Father Philippe promised. “And God grant all that you deserve.” His smile was kindly as he walked on, a slender, serene man, burned by the country.
Travis stood with a peculiar, stricken chill. God grant all that you deserve! He had offered the gold coins in a gambler’s careless gesture to bolster luck. And the padre had left him with an accusing thought that ate in corrosively for a moment, leaving a sense of uneasy portent. With an effort, Travis shook off the chill feeling as he walked on across the plaza to the squat red brick building that housed the Soledad Bank.
Ed Jackson, who ran the bank, was a modest, graying man, slow talking, and also slow thinking, Travis had decided scornfully. Jackson’s office was in the front of the bank, and, when he saw his visitor in the office doorway, Jackson s
tood up quickly from his desk to shake hands.
Travis dropped into a chair by the desk and balanced his black hat on a knee. He had cultivated Jackson with some care. He was easy and smiling now as he came to the point at once. “Matt Kilgore tells me his luck turned bad and he borrowed thirteen thousand dollars from the bank, on a note made due and payable ninety days after demand.”
“Yes,” Ed Jackson said.
“And three months ago, the bank sold Kilgore’s note to Gideon Markham,” Travis said.
“Correct.”
“And Gid Markham immediately demanded payment of the note in ninety days,” Travis said. “This is the day Kilgore’s note is due.”
“I’m afraid so,” said Ed Jackson regretfully.
Travis said pleasantly: “I rode in ahead of Matt Kilgore to take up his note for him.”
Ed Jackson looked startled. Then his pleased smile came. “I’ll get it,” he said, leaving his chair. He had a satisfied, excited look as he hurried out.
A pleasant sense of power filled Travis as he looked idly at the polished brass cuspidor and the scenic lithographs on the walls. This was what money could do. Buying Kilgore’s note was a gamble, although a pleasurable one. He was beginning to like Matt Kilgore and Kilgore’s daughter Patricia. Travis sat musing on what the Kilgores were going to mean to him.
Ed Jackson was wondering somewhat the same thing as he opened the bank’s black metal note box. He was pleased at what was happening and covertly excited, too, because he suspected that fierce emotions and possibly fiercer acts would now be unleashed. Ed was smiling as he walked back to his creaking swivel chair.
Travis stood up and walked to the window with an air of held-in force. The blue broadcloth coat was snug over wide shoulders. Sunlight through the window highlighted auburn tints in his curly hair. To his credit, Ed Jackson had noted, Travis ignored the custom of the country and went unarmed.
