“Why not?”
Rawlins looked aside, unable to meet the sheriff’s penetrating stare. “Don’t know,” he said in a low voice. “Harry McCandless has done a lot of wild things in his time. But I don’t know of any harm in him. At least, not from the stories I hear going around. His nose is too much in books— Excuse me!” Rawlins looked aside and suddenly burst into tears, wiping his eyes on a dirty bandanna and rocking with grief. “That child! That poor little child!”
“All right,” Duer said finally. “Get some clothes on, Dade. I’m going to keep you in my nice warm lockup where I can have a comfortable talk and get all the details. I give you two minutes to get ready.”
No sleeping was being done by Jake Kilgore that night. His civil case had been decided during the day, speedily and without recourse to jury, when counsel for the plaintiff had admitted he didn’t have much of a case. The defendant, out of his own generosity and relief, had offered to give the plaintiff a few dollars, not as damages but merely as an expression of sympathy, and it was understood that the old man was welcome in the saloon when he recovered from his broken leg, so long as he behaved himself. Kilgore collected his fee and walked out of the courtroom with his new assistant, Clem Erskine.
“A whole lot of work wasted,” Erskine said. “A brief prepared, lawyers kept busy, and the case should never have come to court in the first place.”
“Agreed on the latter, but not on the former,” Kilgore said. “Work is never wasted. Without me, they might have hung damages on my esteemed client simply because he’s an unpopular bastard. This way I forced everyone to admit that there was no case, and we’ve upheld at least a tiny shred of the law around here. I propose we walk over to the cantina and see if there’s any card playing action tonight.”
Erskine smiled. He had been covertly warned by Sarah Hilleboe to try to keep Kilgore away from his cronies, but he saw there was no use trying. He went along, staked to a hand by Kilgore. Within an hour, Clem had won clear his stake and had paid the lawyer back. By midnight, a substantial stack of silver dollars and even a gold eagle or two reposed on the table in front of Clem. Kilgore beamed with paternal pride, even though some of the money was his own. His apprentice was a good man with the cards. That bespoke potential skill at the law, too. It was a good sign.
Morning, cold, bright, and clear. And first thing in the morning, Sheriff Mike Duer was at the brick building in the center of town whose façade proclaimed it to be the head-quarters of the San Carlos Irrigation and Development Company—the main enterprise of Dan McCandless.
Perhaps a dozen men were at work at the lower floor as the sheriff entered. He strode quickly past bookkeepers and clerks, and up to the second-floor office that overlooked the plaza. Ornate gold letters declared the office to be that of Frederick Hicks, the general manager.
The door was half open. Duer knocked anyway. Frederick Hicks glanced up from a welter of letters and slipped back a pair of arm garters.
“Can I help you, Sheriff?”
“I suppose you might,” Duer said, entering the office. He glanced significantly at Hicks’s secretary, a plump, good-natured woman named Flora Bowen. “Like to talk to you alone, Hicks.”
Hicks was a slim, long-faced man with a waspish air about him. An underling by birth, Duer decided. Hicks had authority, but he was really only Dan McCandless’ puppet.
“If you insist, Sheriff. We can go into Mr. McCandless’ office.”
“McCandless senior?”
“That’s right.” Hicks led the way into an adjoining office, large and expensively furnished. Green shades threw the room into shadows, but a rich glow was cast up by the colors of a large Navajo rug. A Gainsborough gazed at a full-length portrait of Dan McCandless, across a scene more suited to scholarly pursuits than to commerce. Rich woods and marble sculpture were distributed with flamboyant taste.
“Now, Sheriff, what’s the trouble?”
“Nothing very much. I don’t suppose the vice-president of this firm is around here this early in the morning, by any chance?”
“Harry?” Hicks smiled. “We don’t see too much of Harry around here.”
“Oh, really?”
“He comes in every now and then. Smokes his father’s cigars, snoops around a little, reads a little, then leaves.”
“I thought he took a more active part in running the business,” Duer said. “After all, he’s the heir.”
Hicks nodded. “His father’s unhappy about that. But Harry’s not cut out for business, I’m afraid.”
Duer glanced around the office. He had never been in Dan McCandless’ private office before. The desk was of intricate design, inlaid in gold leaf. Ornate crystal fixtures dangled from the ceiling. The room reeked of money, disbursed with a lavish hand.
Duer said easily, “You mean he’s just in and out of here, eh? When did you see him last, for example?”
“I’d say about a week ago,” Hicks replied.
“As long ago as that?”
“Yes. He came in and wanted to have a look at the books. Nobody but old Dan is supposed to have access to the books. Dan never said anything about letting Harry see them, so I refused. Rather rudely, I’m afraid. I told him to go back to his own office and cut out paper dolls, because that was about all the good he did around here.”
Duer laughed. “I bet he didn’t like that.”
“I bet he didn’t,” Hicks agreed. “But he knows I’m in charge here when Dan’s away, and he’s afraid to buck my authority. So he went out. He hasn’t been back since. That was—let me see—yes, at least a week ago. But I’m sure you didn’t come here to discuss the inadequacies of the heir to the business, Sheriff. What exactly is it you’d like to talk to me about?”
“Precisely what we’ve been talking about,” Duer said. “And you’ve been very helpful. Thank you most kindly, Mr. Hicks. Much appreciate the time.”
And he turned and left. Down below, in front of the building, he called a deputy over.
“Pete, go round up half a dozen men or so, and make sure they’re armed. We’re going to ride up to Wa-po-nah and take Harry McCandless into custody.”
The deputy nodded and rode quickly away.
Upstairs, Frederick Hicks gaped in bewilderment for a moment in Dan McCandless’ office. Then his brain started to function again. If the sheriff had come here to ask questions about Harry, then Harry must be in some sort of trouble. Hicks knew where his responsibility lay. He had to phone Wa-po-nah and warn the boy.
He reached for the telephone.
4.
HARRY MCCANDLESS had awakened at his usual time that morning and lay in bed before breakfast. He could hear the whinnying of a horse in the stables. A cockerel crowed in one of the outhouses. He heard the stirring of the servants.
A light tap at the door. “Mr. Harry?”
“Yes, Julian?”
“You want to sleep this morning?”
“No, why?”
“You were up kind of late.”
“How late was that?”
A moment of hesitation. “I’d say past two.”
Harry considered the matter. “I’ve got too much to do this morning, Julian. I’d better make an appearance at the office. I’ll be down in ten minutes.”
“I’ll have breakfast ready,” said Julian.
Harry closed his eyes, waiting for the dull ache of the hangover to pass. How much had he been drinking? Not much at all. It was the other two who had gone for that bottle of bourbon—over his protests, he reflected. The whole idea of that party had not been his.
Or had it?
He threw back the covers and stalked into the marble bathroom that projected over the east wing. Deep lines rimmed his flashing, intelligent eyes as he prepared to shave at the open window. A tank on the roof gave him running water—a luxury in the Territory. But, then, the great mansion of dressed stone with its scores of guestrooms and murals and vast hearths and rare wooden floors was rather fabulous. Wa-po-nah had been built t
en years before, when Dan McCandless had moved the family down from Colorado to take up residence permanently in the Territory of New Mexico.
Dan (he never thought of his father except in this way) had acquired the old Lucero ranch property of ten thousand acres at a time when it seemed that the governorship of the Territory lay within his grasp, subject only to the consent of the President of the United States. The great castle had been erected not far from the old Lucero headquarters ranch house, and surrounding the huge structure were hundreds of acres planted to pears and apples in new and improved strains imported from New York, California, and England. Since that first day several hundreds of thousands of acres had been annexed to the original purchase.
A kettle of hot water had been brought earlier by Julian to the marble sink. It was still steaming gently as it ran into a soap cup, a gift from Dan McCandless to Harry on his sixteenth birthday. The cup was pure gold.
He did a bad job of shaving. His skin was tender and scratchy, shredding easily. Blotting the oozing blood on a towel, he returned to the bedroom. His clothes were neatly laid out for him—a suit of fine worsted made in Bond Street, with the deep pockets and long lines of the period; soft shirt, wing collar, bow tie. On the dresser were gold cuff links and a slim watch of Swiss import attached to a fine gold chain.
Julian smiled approvingly as Harry came down the winding stairs, rubbing his eyes blearily. “I say!” the Negro remarked. “You surely would pass on Wall Street, Mr. Harry!”
As usual, Julian was waiting for his arrival, serviette over his wrist, glancing reproachfully at the grandfather clock, which proclaimed that Harry was five minutes late.
“This isn’t Wall Street,” said Harry with a grin. “And this rig isn’t my idea of the way to dress out here.”
“You are every inch the businessman,” said Julian, inclining his head in a courtly gesture. “I am sure Mr. Dan would be more than pleased.”
Letters and the Santa Fe paper were waiting at the breakfast table—a long refectory table in Chinese Chippendale, which stood in a great, vaulted dining room paneled in costly woods. Harry lifted the uppermost letter. It had been postmarked in New York City five days earlier. The bold scrawl was more than familiar. He looked up as Julian returned from the kitchen with a silver platter heaped with rashers of crisp bacon and a mound of scrambled eggs.
“How did this letter get here?” he asked.
Julian paused in serving the food to explain that the driver of the stage from Sweetwater had recognized the handwriting and had given the letter to one of the Wa-po-nah rancheros somewhere along the road that skirted the McCandless property. McCandless mail got special handling. It was a federal offense to circumvent the post office this way, but the drivers risked it for Dan McCandless.
“I guess he expects a handout at Christmas,” Harry said.
“Quite likely,” said Julian gravely. They exchanged glances. The McCandless enterprises had not been going well this cold season. Harry’s laugh was harsh and unpleasant.
“This may be a hard Christmas all around, Julian.”
“Yes, senorito,” said Julian, returning silently to the kitchen. Harry finished breakfast, letting the envelope remain unopened before him, propped against a pitcher of cream. A shudder went through his body. It was the thought of Julian, he told himself; or rather, the silent tread that took the old man through the great house like a specter. Had there ever been a time without Julian? he wondered.
Finally he opened the letter.
Dear Harry:
No one suggested to me that you leave the university and come into the company. The idea was my own, because I wished, under the extraordinary way in which you have been conducting yourself, to make sure that you followed a course of action that would build that strength of character and knowledge of people and the intimate details of business methods that will enable you to carry some of the heavy responsibilities that will one day prove too much for me.
Of course you are a free agent. Have I ever said or done anything to indicate the contrary? The fact is that you have always enjoyed perfect freedom—and from the earliest age you have been encouraged to make your own decisions. I don’t know what part of me you have inherited, but you have the brilliance of your mother’s family, and there is nothing you could not achieve if you were to set your mind on goals worthy of your gifts.
But what have you done? You went back to the university last fall only after President Hawkes had listened to the most desperate pleading on my part. I suppose he expects some gift for his endowment fund, and one day I will meet that obligation. Even so, I had the greatest difficulty persuading him to overlook your disgraceful marks in courses that you had picked out yourself. Philology. Medieval French poetry. I almost suspect you chose these courses to challenge every sensible plan I ever tried to devise for your benefit. I must admit that calculus will be useful to you as an engineer—but when will you take the solid courses in that field that will benefit you when the time comes to assume greater duties in connection with the business?
I am not easily hurt, but I was wounded, really wounded, to learn that you had virtually ceased to be a student during this semester. I was told that you cut classes, spent your time in taverns with low women, and depended on your native wit in the few classes you saw fit to attend. Your expulsion hardly seems unmerited.
I daresay I expected nothing else when I left you at Wa-po-nah for this trip to New York. I can hope only that you are attending the office, using your brilliance for something better than your customary debaucheries. It is breaking my heart.
Now, enough scolding. I don’t enjoy it—and it keeps me steeped in gloom. New York is cold today, with a damp fog blowing in. Our hotel is only a short distance from Wall Street and the offices of Mr. Gould, on whose pleasure I dance attendance every day. I have never found myself in such difficulties before. After years of pouring hundreds of thousands of dollars into the company—the soundest enterprise in the Territory—these vultures in Wall Street will not advance one hard nickel to a land of riches. I hardly mind for myself. I have made millions, and I have lost millions, and I’ll make them again. What hurts is the evidence of hatred and mistrust from all those who have backed the company with hard cash.
Money is there, but Frick and Gould are using this terrible depression as an excuse to close the door on me. I am so extended that I have been pinched at times for pocket money. Silver has gone down, and my resources are lower than they have ever been since I left Canada for the States. I am even embarrassed to leave this drafty hotel for fear that the bill will prove more than I can pay—and I dare not seek to borrow a cent in this town. It would be quite disastrous if my position were known.
I have a feeling that Joel Tilley is somehow responsible for this loss of credit. I am sure he is working in the background, spreading rumors and capitalizing on the general dissatisfaction, but these smiling bankers never mention his name, and of course I must preserve an appearance of indifference against the tactics of that guttersnipe.
Now one last word. I have never before gone into these difficulties. It is not my policy to discuss matters of adversity, but I must tell you that the present situation can well be disastrous. I have many enemies in the Territory. Long before you were born, I participated in events that all of us want to forget, but people have long memories and the first sign of weakness will cause them to turn on me like wolves. You must keep these revelations to yourself—and above all conduct yourself like a man of character and dignity as a representative of the family.
Should you involve yourself in any difficulties while I am away, the man to consult is Kilgore. He is a difficult man, and disapproves of you, but he is fundamentally honest and can be trusted. I prefer, of course, that you do not require his services in any matter. Now, Harry, enough. I am pleased that you are punctual in attendance at the office, and I hope that the shock of your expulsion from the university will persuade you to take a new course of action.
Your lo
ving father,
DANIEL MCCANDLESS
Harry read the letter through with a growing frown, and by the time he was finished his hand was shaking. The crisp, ringing tones of his father’s voice seemed to be echoing in the room, and then the silent tread brought Julian and there materialized a silver pitcher at his side.
“What the hell!” cried the surprised Harry.
Julian said with dignified reproach. “You always take a third cup, Mr. Harry.”
The telephone began to ring. Harry rose and went past the smiling servant into the library, where the telephone stood on a desk of its own in the big room filled with rare and valuable books dealing with the history of Mexico and South America. It was the first telephone introduced in the Territory, strung on a private line from Wa-po-nah into the office of San Carlos years ago, preceding the first public telephone exchange in the Territory by some six months.
“Yes?”
“Hicks, Mr. McCandless. Thought you’d like to know that Sheriff Duer was just up here. Asking a lot of questions about you.”
“About me, eh? What did you tell him?”
“The truth. That I hadn’t seen you in a week.”
“And what did he do?”
“Thanked me and left. I don’t know how to interpret his visit, Mr. McCandless.”
“All right,” Harry said slowly. “Thanks for telling me. Is that all?”
“Yes, Mr. McCandless.”
“Very well, Hicks. I won’t be in today, either. I guess maybe the sheriff will come to visit me.”
He hung up and turned to stare into Julian’s deep-set, wrinkled visage. Julian seemed to be awaiting orders.
“Mike Duer may come here this morning,” Harry said. “See that he gets shown in without any trouble. I’ll be in my study.”
“Very good, Mr. Harry.”
Harry’s own study was a smaller one adjoining the library. Its walls were lined with books in a dozen languages, for in his intense way Harry had become quite a linguist. Spanish, French, Italian, Portuguese, Latin and Greek, German, a smattering of Dutch, a bit of Hebrew, even Rumanian had come within his ken. He selected a book at random—Antonio Herrarra’s Histórica general de los hechoes de los castellanos en las Islas i Terra Firme del Mar Oceano, a leather-bound volume three hundred years old—and leafed through its stiff pages, waiting for Duer.
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