Title: The Rider of the Mohave
Author: Fellom, James
Language: English
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THE RIDER OF THE MOHAVE

A Western Story

By JAMES FELLOM

A. L. BURT COMPANY

Publishers--New York

Published by arrangement with Chelsea House

Printed in U. S. A.

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Copyright, 1924

By CHELSEA HOUSE

The Rider of the Mohave

(Printed in the United States of America)

All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian.

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To those who, having paid the penalty for their misdeeds, seek to
regain their places in the ranks of the law-abiding, this book is
sympathetically dedicated

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CONTENTS

        Prologue  He Rides by Night
               I  Mania and Dreams
              II  The Man Hunter
             III  In Which Wills Collide
              IV  Lemuel Yields
               V  The Wherewithal
              VI  Aftermath
             VII  Startling Predicaments
            VIII  Lavender and Old Lace
              IX  Evidence to Convict
               X  A Disclosure
              XI  Outwitted
             XII  Reputations at Stake
            XIII  Sinister Forebodings
             XIV  An Episode in the Hills
              XV  The Potent Influence
             XVI  The Hand of Quintell
            XVII  One Silent Night
           XVIII  Skulking Shadows
             XIX  An Enemy in the Ranks
              XX  Geerusalem Stirs
             XXI  The Law and the Lawless
            XXII  A Showdown
           XXIII  The Uprising
            XXIV  Warburton Gets Square

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THE RIDER OF THE MOHAVE

PROLOGUE—HE RIDES BY NIGHT

It was three in the morning, but Geerusalem had not yet closed its
eyes. There was too much undug gold in the hills; it was too
handy—too easy come, easy go; the days, too short; the pleasures,
too wanton, too alluring. The camp of Geerusalem promenaded,
gambled, danced, fought, debauched the night away, waiting for
to-morrow. Far out on desolate Soapweed Plains, rose the
intermittent, yelping wail-bark of a coyote.

The back door of a little store that fronted on the main street
opened cautiously. The interior of what was a kitchen was dark; the
flower-garden yard into which it gave, was also dark. The shadowy
form of a man emerged and halted; he peered carefully about through
the gloom. A smaller figure followed, pausing on the threshold—a
woman, her white apron and snowy hair quite visible. The man turned,
took her in his arms impulsively, and held her close to his breast.

“Don’t you worry, ma. I’ll be droppin’ round again, two weeks from
to-night—sure’s sic ’em!” he whispered, as he kissed her.

The woman wept softly. “Oh, Jerome, darling, why don’t you quit this
awful thing?” she sobbed, clinging to him. “Don’t you know how my
heart’s just breaking?”

“Too late, ma. I oughter’ve quit ’fore I begun. If I started
quittin’ now, they wouldn’t let me, would they? But I’m tellin’ you;
don’t think about me. They can’t ketch me. I’ve bin goin’ it three
years, ain’t I? Well, then, when you see Tinnemaha Pete, tell him to
leave you a chunk of that ore. An’ see that he don’t tell nobody
about findin’ it. I figger it’s a bonanza. Mebby, that’ll mean
better days. Well, we’ll see what’s doin’. Now, I’d better be
scootin’, honey. An’ don’t you worry, see?” He kissed her again,
tenderly, many times, breathing his last injunction into her ear.

A few seconds later he had slipped like a shadow across the yard and
was stealing out of an alleyway between two adobe buildings, heading
for the back street. That street was black, deserted, the nocturnal
population of the camp confining itself to the bright lights and
attractions that converted the one business thoroughfare into a
brilliant avenue, noisy with ribald merrymaking and adventure.

Near by stood his horse. He reached it and, with a vigilant glance
about, threw back one of the flaps of his saddlebags and plunged a
rummaging hand inside. It came forth with a folded piece of wrapping
paper and several nails he had placed there the day before.

With a reckless chuckle, he wound his bandanna around his face
leaving only his eyes exposed; then he mounted and rode off to the
next cross street, and thence to the brilliantly lighted hub of the
town. The bulletin board of the Geerusalem _Searchlight_, an
afternoon newspaper, loomed big and black on the edge of the
sidewalk, in the full glare of window lights. It was one of those
moments when the immediate vicinity was clear of promenaders.

Seeing this, the rider spurred over to the bulletin board, unfolded
the sheet of wrapping paper, and nailed it on the black surface with
the butt of his six-shooter. Then, he caracoled his horse about,
fired a volley into the air and, throwing the whole strength of his
lungs into a wild howl, waved his hat to a crowd of men standing
before the Miners’ Hotel, and dashed away around the nearest street
corner, bound for the lonely, trailless reaches of the Mohave Desert
far to the south.

The horde of curious night revelers swarming to the spot, a few
seconds later, read with varying degrees of emotion the rough
printed notice on the bulletin board:

  I bin lookin three year for Sheriff Warburton an cant find him.
  Ill give $5,000 to git akquainted with the county fameous
  detektive.

                                        Your lovin bandit,
                                                    Billy Gee.


CHAPTER I—MANIA AND DREAMS

Lemuel Huntington had told himself a thousand times that his Dot
must have an education. He had long since become infatuated with the
notion. It had him gripped as tenaciously as the seductive toils of
romance had the imaginative Dot enmeshed. It was a consuming mania
with him.

“If I got to steal the money, she’s goin’ to college—the dream of
her darlin’ dead mother. S’help me, I’ll turn thief if I got to!”

Lemuel, the failure, was fifty-one—the age when most men begin to
slow down, whether they want to or not. Twenty years before, he and
his little bride had left a perfectly good living in Iowa to try a
short cut to fortune in California. The fact that more often than
not distance is a most captivating beckoner, did not occur to these
happy newlyweds until they reached the Golden State and found that a
tremendous army—also seeking sudden wealth—had preceded them, and
was daily being augmented by regiments of recruits from the four
corners of the globe.

The discovery appalled them—their capital being alarmingly small;
and nearly two years of drifting from little town to little town,
just managing to get by, took the heart out of them.

Then, one day, Lemuel brought home news of a tract of government
land known as Soapweed Plains, on the north rim of the Mohave
Desert, with enticing reports of rich mineral belts in the adjacent
mountain ranges. It looked like the opportunity for which they had
waited. They would homestead, and in a few years Huntington would be
a name indelibly branded on the cattle industry of the State. And
there was the further golden prospect of rich mines!

Packing their few belongings, husband and wife bought tickets to the
dismal wind-whipped station of Mirage, on the Mohave & Southwestern
Railroad, and spent two everlasting days shooing a trinity of
stubborn burros over a hell waste, into the new land of promise. But
again the captivating beckoner had tricked them. Soapweed Plains was
a sweltering realm of sagebrush, sand and sidewinders, twenty-five
miles wide, divided off from the rest of the desert universe by a
horseshoe barricade of saw-edge peaks and table mountains that
abutted a sky-line mesa to the south—and by serenading coyotes by
night.

In despair, the Huntingtons filed on two quarter sections of sand
and rubble, the west side of their claims overlapping a bunch-grass
hill; the narrow strip on the east was handy to those scant benefits
of irrigation so grudgingly bestowed by the tepid
disappearing-reappearing Mohave River. Here, at least, they might
coax a living out of the soil, said Lemuel dolefully. It was a
permanent anchorage, if nothing more, sighed his wife. And they
started grubbing away a site for a home and killing the sidewinding
rattlesnakes.

Soon, they found that the potato thrived, as did the melon and
alfalfa; found, too, that it was a paradise for bees. They contrived
to get a cow and heifer, a span of desert-broke horses, and a
rattletrap buckboard. Prospectors learned about the Huntington ranch
and, finding it handier to go there after certain commodities than
to far-off Mirage, began patronizing it. Its popularity grew. As a
result, Lemuel added a stock of bacon, beans, condensed milk, sugar,
matches, and such staple supplies to his assorted farm products, and
reaped a comfortable profit therefrom.

Then Dot came—and the lonely brush ranch became the nucleus of
Lemuel and Emily’s resurrected hopes, for they began planning
wonderful things for their first-born, and, not the least among
these things, an education that would make her a great lady of
accomplishments some day.

But the years dragged by, one after the other, in that
out-of-the-way land, so woefully lacking in
transportation—empty-handed years almost, that held out scarcely
more than a possibility at any time that those precious plans of
theirs would ever be fulfilled. It would take a fat purse indeed to
send Dot to select Longwell Seminary in San Francisco and keep her
there in becoming luxury until she blossomed forth a chosen daughter
of California’s élite.

When Dot was twelve her brave little mother died, and for a long
time afterward, Lemuel went about like a man desperately searching
for something he had lost without knowing just what it was. His
resurrected hopes died with her, and were buried. Everything slowed
down to a point where he merely held on to a bare living for himself
and his child.

To-day, he was a failure, that child eighteen, while the only
remaining echo of the precious plans to make Dot a grand lady was
this secret wild mania of his, seething in the core of his brain, to
see that daughter educated before they laid him beside the trim
little grave in the garden.

Perhaps it was this same mania of his that now led him to haunt the
nearest place where brains forgathered—the gold camp of Geerusalem,
four miles northeast of the Huntington ranch—and to get to
hobnobbing with its insolent brotherhood of mining engineers,
promoters, assayers, and attorneys—a type of individual that looms
up in the mind of the crude Southwest as prodigious as totem poles,
omniscient and omnipotent.

Whatever it was that made Lemuel enjoy being the butt of this uppish
fraternity’s quips and sneers, and come back regularly for more,
hardly matters. Month in and month out, as often as he could get
away from the ranch, he would saddle a horse and ride to Geerusalem,
and spend the day strutting around with the forty-five caliber
brains of the camp. Accordingly, day after day, Dot, the
imaginative, was left to herself and the weaving of her wistful,
romantic dreams.

She was a bright little body, this eighteen-year-old daughter of
Lemuel, the failure; face so frank and sensitive, hair so soft and
wavy and glossy, throat so round and smooth. Her eyes were large and
brown, and sometimes quite sad from gazing too long into the
monotonous distances out of whose blue haze nothing of living
substance ever came. She had grown to charming young womanhood, but
she still retained the fanciful mind of her pinafore days—the little
story-teller had survived as her playmate, Frank Norris would have
said—with all a youngster’s fascination for impossible stories of
impossible beings.

She would sit by the hour dreaming of handsome blond heroes rescuing
beautiful maidens from the clutches of Tatarian villains, with
wicked flowing black mustaches and bushy eyebrows, of magnificent
daredevil bandits succoring helpless widows and orphans, of
notorious Billy Gee even, about whose wild, desperate exploits up
and down the Mohave and Colorado Deserts she had heard so much, of
hairbreadth escapes, furious bloody duels, and brilliant weddings.

The isolated ranch was an ideal spot for the painting of just such
thrilling mind pictures. She could sit on the front porch and look
across the gray desolation of plain that stretched to the violet and
yellow scallop of range twenty miles eastward, and visualize in that
void of undulating air currents every scene her fertile imagination
conjured up for her. She lived those scenes, every one of them. They
were big moments in her life; palpitating, vivid moments—moments
that made her dreary, humdrum existence worth while to her.

“Nothing ever happens out here,” she would sometimes murmur to the
eternal sameness of the plains. “Nobody ever comes this way, even. I
wish daddy would sell the ranch and move to Geerusalem or
somewhere—where things happen, where people laugh and talk and
visit.”

On a number of occasions, Lemuel had found her sitting on the front
porch, musing into the solitudes, eyes brilliant, cheeks aglow, her
parted lips moving.

“Gosh, what a pity!” he had lamented to himself each time, as he
went tiptoeing away. “It’s them fine brains of hers workin’. I tell
you, Em’ly, wife, she’s goin’ to be the great lady you figgered on,
if I got to sell my soul to do it. I’m jest watchin’ for a chanct.
You wait an’ see!”


It was well on toward noon of an August day. A fiery sun was
churning the floor of Soapweed Plains into a stormy ocean of heat
waves. Lemuel had gone to Geerusalem on his customary hobnobbing
expedition. Dot, her housework completed, sat reading in the shade
of the passion-flower vine that trellised the porch, a novel
borrowed from Mrs. Agatha Liggs, a widow who kept a small dry goods
store in the camp.

Suddenly, breaking on the dead silence like muffled shots, came the
sound of hoofs. Dot dropped her book and sprang to her feet
expectantly, for the riders who passed that way, bound to and from
the unimportant desert station of Mirage, were few indeed and far
between. The next instant she was staring at a lone horseman
approaching, not along the road but from across country, from the
direction of the violet and yellow scallop of range that formed the
magical setting of all her romantic dreams!

She stared in unbelief, amazed for the moment. Then she noticed that
he was hatless, that the whole side of his head, the whole front of
his dirty, white shirt, were crimson with blood, that he reeled
drunkenly, lifelessly in the saddle.

Aghast at the spectacle, she gazed on, rooted to the spot, until the
exhausted horse stumbled up to the barred gate and stopped,
drooping, rocking on quivering legs. Out of the gate she darted
then, threw down the bars and led the animal up to the house, her
heart fluttering with excitement and horror.

The rider was in a half swoon, mumbling thickly. Above his right ear
was a long, bloody furrow, like the plow of a bullet. The bandanna
he had had for a bandage had slipped down over his face, neglected.
It was saturated. He had been bleeding for hours, was her horrifying
thought. A glance told her that he was a stranger. That same glance
informed her that he was probably twenty-five, fairly good-looking
even through his coating of dust and blood, and that he wore a
double cartridge belt and a brace of six-shooters, one of which he
still held gripped in his hand.

Ordinarily, she would have been quite unable to handle the dead
weight he represented, but now she managed to drag him out of the
saddle and into the house without being particularly conscious of
the effort. She got him on the parlor lounge finally and plunged
into the work of bathing his wound and dressing it. Then she tore
away his sodden shirts, replaced them with two of her father’s, and
brought a dipper of water and poured it in little swallows down his
throat.

Seating herself in a chair beside him, she looked him over
curiously, studied him. Who was he? What was he? The wound? Under
less shocking circumstances, it was quite probable he would have
proved a big treat to her vivid imagination. But now there somehow
seemed to be too much tragic reality about him to make her care to
commit him and his plight to the wild flings of fancy.

At last he opened his eyes and stared up at her vaguely. They were
blue eyes. There was an odd, hunted glint in them, a smolder of
recklessness, a shadow of sadness, exhaustion. He raised an
uncertain hand to his bandaged head. He glanced around the room,
then back at her, his wits clearing suddenly.

“Where am I? Whose—whose place is this?” he jerked out, with an
effort.

“This is Lemuel Huntington’s ranch. I’m his daughter, Dot.” She
thought a queer interest leaped into his eyes at the information.
“You must be quiet, now. You’ve lost a lot of blood, but you’ll be
all right,” she went on, when he did not speak. “If I fixed you
something, could you eat?” She rose from her chair.

But he detained her, in a sudden spasm of apprehension. “My—my
saddlebags! I—they——” he faltered hoarsely.

“They’re safe outside,” she nodded. “Do you want them?”

“Please, sister. Bring ’em here. Hurry! I—I want ’em handy.”

She ran out of the front door to the horse which still stood,
untethered, on sagging legs. Unfastening the leather containers, she
carried them into the house. She remarked that while they were not
especially heavy, they bulged to capacity, their flaps buckled
securely. She remarked also the man’s relief at sight of them and
how profusely he thanked her. Then he instructed her to stow them
under the head of the lounge and asked her for a drink of water. But
when she returned with a dipperful, she found him sunk into a sleep
of exhaustion. Whereupon she darkened the room, closed the door
quietly behind her, and went outside again to look after the spent
horse.

Watering the animal, she tied it in a stall in the barn to feed.
Then she inspected the stranger’s saddle carefully. It was typical
of the parts, without an identifying mark of any kind upon it,
except splashes of dried blood. Presently she fastened the barn door
and reëntered the house. Her mysterious patient still slept. It was
a few minutes past noon, and she sat down to her customary
warmed-over meal in the kitchen, but she could not eat.


CHAPTER II—THE MAN HUNTER

As has been said, Dot Huntington was, notwithstanding her eighteen
years, a child of romance. She had been “living scenes” ever since
her mother told her the first bed-time story in the long, long ago.
She had wished so many, many times in the past that something really
thrilling might happen to her—a big, exciting adventure. At this
moment she felt that that thrilling something had at last happened.
Here was that big, exciting adventure begun. It was all like one of
her tremendous, wonderful dreams come true.

She quivered rapturously in the realization that she was a
flesh-and-blood factor in some great tragic mystery, that, hero or
villain, this sick, wounded man was her patient, dependent on her. A
surge of pity swept suddenly into her heart at the thought; an odd
sense of responsibility followed, bringing with it a subtle
gratification she keenly welcomed.

She told herself that this stranger had ridden in out of that vast
mystic horizon where all her dreams had taken shape—like any one of
the impossible beings she visualized—looking for attention, care,
succor. Yes, she would heed his call—whether he was good or bad.
Why, indeed, should she question the moral status of a man half
dead? She sat for a long time, her warmed-over meal cold, ruminating
thus. How he must have suffered out in that awful wilderness of sand
and furnace heat!

Then again came the sound of approaching hoofs.

Starting up out of her chair, she listened. It was the gait of a
fresh horse. If it were her father returning early from camp? If it
were somebody else? She had not given this phase of the matter a
thought. She had lost sight of embarrassing consequences developing.
Now vague fears she could not analyze began to assail her.

The hoofs had fallen into a trot, had come to a halt out on the
road, ere she flitted through the house, reached the front door and
peered cautiously out. A man had just dismounted at the gate. He
also was a stranger, a big, broad man about fifty, wearing a
split-crown sombrero, unusually wide of brim, and baggy trousers
stuffed into high-heeled boots. He too was coated with the dust of
long riding, his iron-gray mustache almost invisibly white with it,
his six-shooter holsters standing out from his hips.

In the act of lowering the bars, he stooped to examine something on
the ground. His appearance, coupled with this last suspicious move,
sufficed to stamp him an officer of the law, even though he was not
wearing his identifying star of authority.

Dot watched him a few seconds, reasoning that were he an officer, he
undoubtedly hailed from San Buenaventura, the county seat, as she
was well acquainted with the constable and deputy sheriffs who made
their headquarters in Geerusalem. With this decision, she closed the
door, locked it, and rushed into the parlor. Her patient was
sleeping heavily. She shook him by the shoulder.

“Wake up! Wake up! There’s a—a sheriff outside!” she whispered
hoarsely into his ear.

He scrambled off the lounge in a panic, wild-eyed, groggy, a curse
bursting from his lips.

“Y’sure? Why in hell—— Git back, an’ let me at him! I’ll give him——”
He fumbled feebly for his six-shooters, reeled off his balance, and
tumbled over backward on the lounge. His gaze fastened on her,
horrible with appeal. “You wouldn’t feed me to that buzzard—this
way—would you, sister? Gimme an even break with the——” he gasped
out.

A strange ominous fire was playing in Dot’s eyes. She was pale, but
dangerously calm. She leaned over him and caught him quickly around
the middle with her right arm.

“Come! Stand up! He won’t dare go into my room.”

He blundered to his feet, then through the small dining room and into
her own quarters, adjoining the kitchen, she finally staggered with
him and helped him onto her bed.

“Not a sound, now!” she warned.

“I’ll never ferget you for this, Miss—Miss Huntington,” he said
hoarsely.

She closed the door after her as she went out, locked it, and
hurriedly arranged her appearance before the wall glass in the
kitchen. Then she threw on a sunbonnet and took a glistening
something out of a drawer in the cupboard. She walked out of the
back door, just as the stranger, having finished his investigations
at the gate, approached along the driveway, leading his horse. He
touched his hat to her as she came in view around the corner of the
house, one hand hidden in the folds of her skirt.

“I jest dropped in to get a swaller of water for Chain Lightnin’—if
you don’t mind,” he said pleasantly. “It’s right hot travelin’.”

“I shouldn’t wonder. Help yourself.” She indicated the trough near
by. She looked him over, with obvious suspicion.

While his horse drank, the visitor’s eyes wandered apparently
aimlessly over the vicinity; they took in the girl, the buildings,
the fresh hoofprints in the mud around the trough. He even hearkened
to the munching of an animal in the barn—hungry munching, that was.
Presently he sauntered back to her and halted a step away.

“You didn’t happen to see a feller ride by this way an hour or so
ago, miss? Mighta looked shot—bleedin’ bad?” he said, watching her
narrowly.

She nodded. “About two hours ago—yes. Are you——”

“By that you mean, he come an’ went—is that it?”

“I said he _was_ here, not he _is_ here, sir,” she parried, with
emphasis.

He burst into a heavy chuckle, mopped his red face, but kept his
hawklike eye riveted on her. “I see. Of course, if he was here you’d
jest nacherly out with it, sence they ain’t no reason why you
shouldn’t, eh?”

“Well, I declare! You’re awfully clever. You’ve read my
mind—almost,” she exclaimed, giving him a radiant, tantalizing
smile.

He winced and changed his tactics. When he spoke again it was in a
well-assumed, worried confidential tone.

“Poor Bill! He bled like a stuck pig. I see it out by the gate.
Y’see, miss, me an’ him’s old pals. He gets in a little scrimmich
las’ night, an’ a depity sheriff whangs away at him. I bin’ tryin’
to ketch up with him sence about nine this mornin’. I’m dead anxious
to——”

“It’s too bad,” interrupted Dot. “Really, if I’d known that, I’d
have insisted on him waiting for you.” He caught the sly derision in
her voice, and his jaws set.

“I see you got his hoss in the barn. I s’pose you presented him with
a fresh one an’ fixed him up so’s he could go on comf’table?”

“Why, yes! I bandaged his head for him. That was the Christian thing
to do, don’t you think? And that poor horse couldn’t have lasted him
into Geerusalem. But how in the world did you ever guess——”

“How far is that?”

“Geerusalem? Four miles.”

“That’s about where he’s steerin’ for, don’t you reckon?” he asked
shrewdly.

She flashed him another smile. “That’s just what I was going to ask
you. How should I know his business? Being his old pal, you’re doing
a lot of funny questioning, it seems to me.”

He flushed angrily. “You know consid’rable more than you let on,
miss,” he said harshly, his eyes narrowing to pin points. “They
ain’t no hoss went out that gate sence he come in here. Somebody
ridden out before, but you helped this galoot outer the saddle an’
tramped over the other tracks. You can’t make no sucker outer me.
Come through, now!”

She laughed daringly. “There’s more than one way of getting off this
ranch—fast, stranger. I’ve had bother enough with one scamp already,
without wasting breath on his partner.” She took a sudden step away
from him, and the hand she had held concealed in the folds of her
skirt came forth, holding a revolver. “Travel! Get out and hunt for
your friend, before I give you a place to bandage!”

The unexpectedness of her action took him quite by surprise. He
gazed hard at her for a few seconds, then he changed fronts with
amazing rapidity. He began to grin broadly.

“Of co’se, you don’t know who you’re talkin’ to, miss, or you
wouldn’t jerk a gun——”

“I’m talking to another scalawag. Are you traveling, or do you want
what the deputy sheriff gave him?”

There was no doubting her earnestness. Firmness of purpose was
stamped on her face, shone from her eyes. The man saw it.

“Why, I’m Sheriff Warburton, of San Buenaventura County, young
lady,” he said rather awkwardly.

Dot had been looking straight at him, hard, inimically. Now, as he
made known his identity, she also changed front. She wavered
suddenly, amazement, pleasure, unbelief struggling across her face.
She lowered the revolver and broke into a musical laugh.

“Sheriff Bob Warburton! Are you really? Sheriff? I’m Lemuel
Huntington’s daughter, Dot.”

His eyes flew wide open. A snort of astonishment burst from him. His
ruddy countenance expanded into a great warm smile.

“Lem’s daughter!” he exploded. “Get away! Well, I’ll be
reediscongariconficated! Not that leetle knee-high tike I seen in
Jupiter—le’s see, how many years ago was that? Well now, wouldn’t
that bust you!” He grabbed her hand. “An’ this is Lem’s ranch, eh?
Bless his heart! Where’s the good ol’ hoss thief?”

Presently she said: “Won’t you come inside, Sheriff Warburton, and
let me fix you a little bite? You must be hungry——”

“By George! I jest hate to refuse that, Dot. I sure am hungry, but I
got to git along.” He grinned slyly as he added: “My time’s all took
up chasin’ this pardner of mine who you was so horspitable to.”

“Never mind. You’re liable to get shot gallivanting over the plains
without your star and telling such awful whoppers to defenseless
young women,” she warned him, with mock gravity.

“I’m more liable to, wearin’ it an’ tellin’ the truth, Dot. This
galoot is a stick-up—bad clean through. I hear he’s got folks in
these parts an’ I figgered you might be—well, mebby his sister.
You’ll forgive my bein’ a leetle rough, Dot, but I——”

“If you’ll forgive my taking care of a wounded man and asking no
questions, Sheriff Warburton. You were quite correct about him not
leaving by the front gate. But there’s another gate in the north
corner of the field, opening on the road between Geerusalem and
Colony Town.”

“I was dead sure I was right. You can’t fool me on hoss tracks, Dot.
Well, I’m goin’ on into Geerusalem first, to dig up a posse. Reckon
I might see Lem. Anyway, tell him I’m comin’ out before I go back,
to see how he’s behavin’ hisself.”

As he was riding out along the driveway he turned in his saddle and
grinned at her.

“You got too big a heart, Dot. If you’d a-hung onto that pardner of
mine, you’d ’a’ collected ten thousand dollars reeward—cash down.”
He tapped the breast pocket of his corduroy coat as he spoke.


CHAPTER III—IN WHICH WILLS COLLIDE

For a long time after Sheriff Warburton rode away, Dot followed him
with her eyes. Not until he was but a wisp of dust in the gray
distance, did she turn to reënter the house. She was considerably
shaken by the ordeal, relieved that it was over. Ten thousand
dollars reward, he had said. A fortune! What a store of untold
pleasures it would buy—surcease of worry, regeneration! Thoughtfully
she walked to her room and unlocked the door. The fearful eyes of
the fugitive fastened on hers questioningly.

“He’s gone. It was Sheriff Warburton. He’s hunting for you—to arrest
you.” She said this in quiet tones.

“I—I don’t know how to thank you, Miss Huntington,” he stammered
huskily. “My—my own mother couldn’t ’a’ done more. I ain’t
deservin’. I’m no good. I’ll never ferget you as long as I live.” A
strange spasm crossed his face. He settled feebly back on the bed,
the tears coursing down his cheeks in little rivulets.

“There now! Don’t think about it,” she said gently. “I’ll fix you
something to eat. Then you can sleep. But my father must not even
suspect that you are here, understand? To-night, when you’re
stronger, I’ll help you out of the house. I’ll spread a few blankets
in the hayloft for you. You’ll be safe there.”

She made to leave the room, but he stopped her.

“Would you mind gettin’ me them—them saddlebags ag’in, Miss
Huntington? An’—an’ keep ’em by me, won’t you? I got things in ’em
I—I can’t afford to lose, so to speak.”

For the second time Dot obeyed his request, bringing the bulging
twin leather pouches from under the parlor lounge and storing them
under the head of the bed. Now, she began to wonder curiously what
they contained. While she prepared him his meal she still wondered.
Of a sudden it dawned on her that in her nervousness and excitement
she had forgotten to ask Sheriff Warburton about the fugitive—who he
was, the nature of his crime, everything. What if she should be
harboring a murderer? The thought chilled the blood in her veins. It
filled her with apprehension, misgivings—horrified her. She turned
it over in her mind, deciding finally that she would not allow
herself to believe it. He was not the type who would kill a man, of
that she became firmly convinced. A murderer must have something of
viciousness stamped on his face, she fancied. The result of these
reflections made her resolve to ask her patient about himself. There
was no great hurry. He could not leave inside of several days
anyway.

Later that afternoon she gathered together a number of old blankets
and quilts, and spread a bed for the wounded fugitive in an obscure
corner of the hayloft under the eaves of the barn. She hid the
blood-spattered saddle. Then she drove the exhausted horse to wander
with their handful of stock in the far end of the field.

Around five o’clock she made out her father galloping home along the
road from camp. Giving the outlaw a few specific instructions she
ran out beyond the gate to meet Lemuel as was her custom. But
Huntington had no smile for his daughter to-day. She marked the ill
humor in his face, the hard, accusing look he gave her, and half
suspected the reason.

A tall, angular, wiry man was Lemuel Huntington, a sprinkle of gray
in his hair and mustache, a countenance more pathetic than
aggressive. Association with Geerusalem’s uppish fraternity had
inspired him to assume its dashy swagger garb—stiff-brim gray
Stetson, corduroy suit, his trousers stuffed into yellow, laced,
three-quarter boots resplendent with steel buckles, his coat,
box-pleated and belted à la Norfolk. Just now, as he rode up,
scowling on Dot, he looked more the prosperous mining man of
sectional influence than the humble, unimportant rancher he really
was.

“What’s this talk of you side-kickin’ it with a bandit, Dot?” he
began sharply as he dismounted.

“I suppose you’ve met Sheriff Warburton, and he’s told you——”

“Yes, I did. He says you helped Billy Gee git away, patched him up,
give him a hoss, an’——”

“Billy Gee!” she gasped aloud. Her patient was the notorious
desperado who, for years, had terrorized the border settlements far
to the south!

“Yes—Billy Gee. He stuck up the paymaster’s car of the Mohave &
Southwestern last night at a gradin’ camp east of Mirage an’ skinned
out with twenty thousand dollars. Bob Warburton was on his trail
when he done it. Posses are out thicker’n fleas—three from
Geerusalem alone. The country’s all riled up. What d’you mean by
actin’ that fool way, Dot? Ain’t you got no sense?”

“How did I know he was Billy Gee, daddy? Please be a little
reasonable.” She spoke, a tinge of impatience in her voice, her eyes
on the ground.

“He must ’a’ acted suspicious, didn’t he? An’ he was winged, to
boot.”

“He was about dead. Father, would you have me run a dying man off
the place, brutally—like a dog? Is that the kind of daughter you
want to be proud of?” She was looking steadily at him now.

Lemuel was silent a moment. He glanced down at the buckles on his
boots.

“By gosh, honey! I reckon you’ve got the ol’ man holed up,” he
admitted rather ruefully. “But can’t you see, if it’d bin any one
else, ’cept Bob Warburton, we’d have a tough time provin’ we wasn’t
in cahoots with this thievin’ kiyote. It’s mighty ticklish business,
I’m tellin’ you. He was bad hit, eh?”

She gave him a detailed account of the fugitive’s arrival at the
ranch, but very carefully omitted to mention that she had taken him
into the house. Adroitly, also, she evaded saying that he had
departed. She dwelt in particular on the seriousness of his
condition because of his loss of blood and his need of immediate
care. Lemuel said no more following this explanation, though it was
quite plain to her that some thought still troubled him.

While he attended to his chores Dot went into the kitchen and
started getting supper ready. Now she was afire with excitement.
Billy Gee, that terrible personage of whom she had heard such wild,
thrilling things, was locked in her room—lying on her bed! _Her_
prisoner! Her romantic brain reeled with ecstasy at the realization.
And Sheriff Warburton, posses galore, were frantically beating brush
the length and breadth of Soapweed Plains for Billy Gee, in pursuit
of a ten-thousand-dollar reward. She had outwitted them—she, Dot
Huntington!

The whole situation struck her as ridiculously funny. She leaned
against the kitchen table and choked with silent laughter. This
indeed was the big, exciting adventure she had longed for all these
past years—infinitely big and exciting, pregnant with thrilling
possibilities.

Then she remembered her father saying that Billy Gee had stolen
twenty thousand dollars just the night before. She grew anxiously
grave. From reflecting on the robbery she presently interpreted the
cause of her patient’s singular concern over the safety of his
saddlebags. They contained his stealings—currency, most likely;
twenty thousand dollars in bills would make a bulky package, she
believed.

Lemuel sauntered in from the barn some minutes afterward. He
prepared to wash.

“I don’t see his horse, Dot,” he began abruptly, as he poured a
dipperful of water into the basin.

“I turned it out with the rest—after I fed it. The poor thing was——”

“You give him Baldy, I s’pose?”

“No. Sheriff Warburton appeared to get the notion from what I said
that I traded horses, and I didn’t tell him different. I didn’t see
why I should,” she explained frankly.

Lemuel, in the act of rolling up his sleeves, glanced around at her.
He frowned.

“Are you meanin’ to tell me, Dot, that a dyin’ man with a sheriff at
his heels’d resk a get-away on foot—pertickler, a hard case like
this here Billy Gee? D’you think I’m a fool, Dot?”

“Well, count your stock if you don’t believe me, daddy.
You’re—you’re doubting everything I say, to-day. I don’t know why.
You’ve never done that before.”

She spoke in such a meek, sorrowful voice that it moved him to cross
the room to her side and kiss her tenderly on the cheek.

“Lord bless you, hon!” he murmured in loving tones. “I ain’t aimin’
to doubt my leetle gal never. You know that.” He laughed. “The on’y
thing I got to say is, it’ll be good-by, Billy Gee, ’fore the week’s
up, if he don’t git somepn faster’n two laigs under him. He must ’a’
left his saddle an’ everythin’, eh?” he added craftily.

“Everything,” nodded Dot, in a very decisive manner.

Lemuel went back to the basin and silently proceeded with his
washing, but he said to himself: “No bandit livin’ would do sech a
crazy thing—shot up, into the bargain. You might fool Bob Warburton,
daughter, but you can’t fool yore ol’ man. There’s ten thousand
dollars hidin’ on this ranch this minute.”

After supper, Lemuel composed himself in his favorite chair and
smoked his pipe and mused as usual. It was a quiet
night—exceptionally quiet, thought Dot, who, mindful that only a
thin board partition separated her room from the kitchen, grew more
and more fearful as the evening dragged on, in the knowledge that an
accidental sound or movement by her outlaw patient would lead her
father to investigate. She trembled at the consequences to herself.
By the hour she kept busy with the noisy task of scouring pots and
pans, giving the cupboard a thorough overhauling, burnishing the
stove, making all the distracting sounds possible, and wishing and
wishing that Lemuel might go to bed. But he had no such inclination.

“At three dollars a day, a man’d work over twenty years for twenty
thousand dollars, Dot,” he observed pointedly, breaking a long
silence. “An’ this Billy Gee gits it overnight.”

“Yes, daddy. But he doesn’t enjoy it. How can he?” she replied,
vigorously rubbing at the stove lids. “Think of him being hunted
from place to place like a wild animal, the target for any man’s
gun, without home or any one to care for him when he’s sick. Think
of such a terrible existence!”

“When a feller tries an’ tries till the heart’s kicked outer him,
’tain’t hard to tempt him. That’s how I feel about it.” There was an
ugly, suggestive note in his voice.

She paused in her scrubbing and gave him a quick, searching look.
Some grim expression she saw in his face, a dangerous flicker in his
eyes, filled her with sudden misgivings.

“I mean that!” he said harshly, with a vicious jerk of his head. He
had taken the pipe from his mouth; his gaze was fastened on her
accusingly. “Look at me! I bin kicked an’ kicked! Year in an’ year
out I bin a-goin’ it, till I’m bruck down—petered out, an’ not a
cussed thing to show for it. An’ look at other men who ain’t half as
deservin’! What’ve I got, eh? What’ve you got?” He stiffened in his
chair, gulped out suddenly in tones that reverberated through the
silent little house: “An’ I’ve tried—God Almighty knows! An’ yore
poor ma she—she died a-tryin’ an’ skimpin’ an’ dreamin’——”

“Father!” cried Dot aghast. Her face was white, drawn; her eyes wide
with alarm.

Sitting there in the yellow lamplight, Lemuel Huntington was wild to
behold; his features distorted into hideous lines; his hands
clenched, his whole body trembling spasmodically. He burst into a
horrible laugh.

“To-day, you doctor up a low-down murd’rous skunk that’d cut our
throats to-morrow for the fun of it. An’ ten thousand dollars gits
by us, eh? D’you hear that! D’you hear that? Ten thousand dollars
for Billy Gee, dead or alive! D’you know what that means to us? An’
d’you reckon I’m goin’ to sit still an’ let you——”

“Blood money!” she broke in, gasping out the words. “Daddy, would
you want to buy your food and drink—mine—our clothes,
pleasures—would you be so inhuman as to find happiness at the
expense of a miserable fellow creature?”

“It’s the law—like the ten-dollar bounty on the hide of the kiyote.
Money is money,” he slung in savagely. “I want you to c’nsider me,
yoreself, our c’ndition. I bin wantin’ to give you an edjucation, to
carry out yore ma’s dyin’ wish. I want you to be somebody. We bin
livin’ like dogs too long. I’m damn sick of it! Outside o’ Agatha
Liggs, look at how them town hussies treat you! An’ them edjucated
shysters who ain’t fit to grease my boots—what do I git from them?
We need money. We got to git money—_now_. Right off, see? An’ if you
can’t help me git it honest, ’cordin’ to law, I’ll start out to
steal it! I’ll turn bandit, an’ it’ll be for you to hide me out an’
take care of me! What d’you say to that, eh? What’re you goin’ to
do?”

He had risen to his feet as he spoke. He crossed the kitchen to her
side and stood now, glowering down on her, cupidity, fury,
desperation flaming from his eyes. Terrified, she stared at him. She
knew at last the reason for the marked change in him, what he
intimated. There was no way for her to dodge the issue.

“You think I know where Billy Gee is——” she began with an effort.

“You got him hid out, an’ don’t lie to me!” he roared. “He’s too
sick to ride, an’ you’re nursin’ him some place on this ranch. You
can’t make no damn fool out of me, young lady. Where is he? You’re
goin’ to tell me, or by hell, I’ll——” He raised his clenched fists
menacingly above her head.


CHAPTER IV—LEMUEL YIELDS

Lemuel Huntington, as has been suggested, was not a forceful
character. Even in this desperate moment when the strength of his
life’s mania was being directed to gain that which would make the
fulfillment of that mania possible, he lacked the stubbornness of
will, the blind conquering egoism, to win his demands at all costs.
He had never had occasion to present such a furious front to his
daughter before. That he was doing it now, exerted a disconcerting
influence upon him, embarrassed him, made him a little uncertain as
to the fairness of his methods.

On the other hand, he had never even so much as suspected the
existence of a broad strain of high-spiritedness in Dot’s nature and
that firmness of purpose which he himself did not have. The
launching of his threat roused her like the sting of a whip. Her
terror vanished and left her cold. She strode up close to him now
and let her eyes burn into his.

“Father! Another word from you, and I’ll leave the house. And I’ll
never come back!”

He did not answer. He looked at her in a queer, dumb frenzy. Then
slowly, amazement, incredulity, indecision grew on his face. He had
never seen her so dreadfully calm, so white before. She had never
threatened such a fearful thing before! A long minute dragged by.

From out in the darkness came the weird shriek of a predacious
nighthawk. Presently, he turned away from her, walked back to his
chair, and began filling with clumsy, trembling fingers his
forgotten pipe. His mouth was distorted with what seemed to be some
forlorn grief; his breath broke from his lungs in low distressful
gasps.

It grew very quiet. The old clock on the shelf ticked tiredly. Some
time afterward he heard a sob and, glancing around, saw Dot leaning
against the wall, her face buried in her hands. Thereupon he put
down his pipe and went over and took her in his arms. Hungrily he
held her to his breast, and there was in his eyes the reflection of
the fierce struggle that was taking place in his soul.

“Your poor, lonesome leetle heart,” he said, in a voice that shook
with sobs. “I didn’t aim to act so cussed, darlin’. God knows, I
wouldn’t do nuthin’ to hurt you, Dot! You know yore dad’d do
anythin’ to make you happy. Don’t you, honey? I’d go through fire
an’ brimstone, I’d die for your daughter, Emily, like I always
said,” he added, his face turned to the rafters under the roof.

Some time afterward, as he lighted his candle to go to his room and
kissed her good night, he reassured her gently. “I jest git so
disapp’inted with myse’f, dearie. Yore poor ma an’ me used to plan
so many big things for our leetle gal. I’ve wanted to do so much for
you an’ I ain’t done nuthin’. Anyway, Dot, we’ll ferget all about
this here Billy Gee. It ain’t worth quarrelin’ over, it ain’t worth
it, hon.”

Dot lingered in the kitchen until she was sure he had gone to bed.
Then she began hurried preparations to spirit her outlaw patient out
of the house. Filling a bottle with hot coffee, she threw some bread
and meat into a paper bag. After this she tiptoed to her room,
stealthily unlocked the door, closed it behind her, and lit the
candle on the bureau.

One glance, and she saw that her bed was empty, the window open.
Billy Gee was gone; so were his saddlebags!

For an instant she stood perplexed. But she breathed easier, vastly
relieved that he had thus chosen to steal out of the house without
her aid. Stepping over to the window she flashed the candle outside
and listened into the quiet night. There was no sign of him, no
sound. He must have found his way into the hayloft, she told
herself, recalling the fact that she had described the location of
his new hiding place to him that afternoon. But from reflecting on
his weak condition she became more and more concerned about him,
resolving finally to investigate his whereabouts and take him the
food.

It was only a matter of four feet from the window sill to the
ground, and a far safer means of exit from the house at this late
hour, particularly after her father’s furious outburst, so
unexpected and ominous. She put out the light and let herself down
noiselessly into the strip of garden outside, and flitted off like a
shadow for the barn. With a subdued little cough to herald her
coming to the fugitive, she climbed the short flight of steps to the
loft and struck a match.

He was there, standing knee-deep in the loose hay, spectral,
sinister, a six-shooter glinting in his hand. At sight of her, he
lowered the weapon and clutched a tie beam for support. Ere the
match went out, she reached his side.

“I was leary it’d go hard on you if he ketched me in there, so I
sneaked out,” he explained in low tones. “I heerd it all an’ I’m
sorry I got you in so much trouble. I’m goin’ to resk it, to-night.”

“No, no! You mustn’t,” she whispered quickly. “The plains are alive
with posses. You’d never escape.”

He chuckled softly. “Wunst I git a-goin’, I’ll be orright. The
moon’s comin’ up, an’ I got folks livin’ handy.”

“Here’s something for you to eat. You must be terribly hungry—weak.”
She thrust the bottle and the paper bag into his hand as she spoke.
“I’d counted on you staying till you were stronger—three days,
anyway. You’d be perfectly safe here. I’d see that you were. Why
don’t you?”

“Yore dad’s too sespicious. He’ll start huntin’ me up; you see if he
don’t.” He broke off, resuming: “I—I won’t ever ferget what you’ve
done for me, Miss Huntington. An’ you wouldn’t give me away, would
you? An’ you’re desp’rate for money. I ain’t ever had anybody give
me such a square deal—chuck over a fortune to help——” His voice
trailed off into silence.

“You poor, wounded wild animal!” said Dot gently. “Even a coyote is
better off than you. Can’t you understand? Don’t you know any
different? Is it so much easier to be bad, so much more pleasing to
have a pack of legalized killers always on your heels? Or don’t you
care?” She paused and added: “Do you really want to repay me for
everything I’ve done for you?”

Through a square hole under the eaves, the first white beams of the
moon were just struggling in. She could see the man’s face
indistinctly; the white bandage around his head.

“I do. Say it! Anythin’ you want done, Miss Huntington,” he nodded.

“Then, quit this miserable life. Be a man. Go far away, where no one
will ever recognize you, and start fresh. Be honorable—somehow. You
can do it, if you want to. But will you? To pay me back?” There was
a strange, dramatic note in her voice.

He caught her hand suddenly, fervently. “I’ll do it, Miss
Huntington. Listen! You turned down ten thousand dollars; you stuck
by me. I’m goin’ to show you what I kin do for you. Some of these
days you’re goin’ to hear from me.”

“I’m so glad,” she breathed. “I’d be so proud to know that I helped
remake the wild animal, Billy Gee, into a God-fearing human being.”

A short, heavy silence fell. From somewhere in the ground floor of
the barn, a board expanding with the cool night air snapped sharply.

“I come up here to take a coupla these old blankets, sence I can’t
lug my saddle; it’s too heavy,” he announced, after a little while.
“Would you mind fixin’ ’em for me?”

She found them half folded, made a neat roll of them, and looped
them for slinging over the shoulders with strips she tore from her
calico apron. As she prepared to leave him, he spoke again.

“Miss Huntington, I’d sorter like you to know that I ain’t near’s
bad as they tell it around. I ain’t never killed a man—wounded ’em,
yes, an’ only jest when I had to. An’ with all I’ve got away with,
I’m next thing to broke this minute. That’s honest——”

“But you held up the paymaster’s car last night, didn’t you?” she
interrupted.

“Yes’m. But I didn’t hold onto the money, bein’ wounded, an’
Warburton——”

“What was in your saddlebags that you said you couldn’t afford to
lose?”

“My mother’s pitcher, some clothes, an’ a lot of leetle doodads I’m
keepin’. I always have ’em along with me. But I want to tell you
ag’in that I ain’t fergettin’ yore kindness. You’re goin’ to hear
from me, Miss Huntington, some time. An’—an’ I hope you’ll be proud,
like you jest said.”

Dot crept down the steps shortly afterward, shut the barn door
behind her, and darted across the moonlit yard. Climbing back into
her room she cautiously lowered the window. Then, with a sigh of
relief and satisfaction, she went to bed. For the remainder of the
night, she lay wide-eyed, snug in the bewitching embraces of romance
and imagination.

Following her departure, Billy Gee remained in the hayloft for a
long interval and leisurely ate the food she had brought him.
Periodically, he looked at his watch by the aid of a moonbeam
streaming in through a crack in the boards. When one o’clock came,
he got carefully to his feet, took up the roll of blankets, and
started downstairs.

From far out on Soapweed Plains, rose the wail-bark of a foraging
coyote. There was no other sound. That semiarid land lay mute and
mysterious and teaming with tragic potentialities.

“Creepy,” he muttered under his breath. “Reckon I’m a leetle
flighty—leaked too much blood.”

He reached the ground floor and noiselessly made his way toward the
rear door of the barn, heading for the field and his horse. As he
fumbled in the dark for the hasp an invisible figure emerged from
under the steps back of him. He felt the sharp dig of a six-shooter
between his shoulders. A voice hissed in his ear.

“Steady, pardner! Make a move, an’ I’ll kill you!”

In a twinkling, he was stripped of his guns. Then his captor—Lemuel
Huntington—unhasped the barn door and herded him outside and down a
narrow lane between two corrals, until they stood in the open field.

“Turn yore face to the moon, an’ let’s git a squint of you, Billy
Gee,” said Lemuel. He studied the outlaw a few seconds. “So my gal
was passin’ up ten thousand dollars for the likes of you, eh? Well,
I won’t! Now, listen clost an’ don’t make no mistake about what I
tell you! Me an’ you’s goin’ on into Geerusalem right off, see?
Warburton wants you dead or ’live, an’ it’s up to you how you care
to be deelivered to him. I don’t. Savvy! Now, march acrosst to them
hosses!”


CHAPTER V—THE WHEREWITHAL

When Dot awoke next morning, after a fitful few hours’ sleep, it was
nine o’clock. She sprang out of bed and hurried through her
dressing, certain that her father was considerately waiting his
breakfast rather than disturb her, late though the hour was. But
upon entering the kitchen, she found that he had not yet been about.
This fact at first astonished, then filled her with alarm. She ran
to his door and rapped sharply, calling him, and experienced a
feeling of deep relief when she heard him yawn out a reply.

Nevertheless, as she walked back into the kitchen and began scraping
the ashes out of the grate, she reflected on the usual circumstance
of Lemuel oversleeping; for not in many years—and then only on the
several rare occasions that they had been out late together the
night before, attending a party at some neighboring ranch—had he
failed to have the fire in the stove going for her. Later on she
told herself that it was quite probable their quarrel had disturbed
him, that worry had kept him awake, and out of this conviction was
born an acute feeling of remorse which determined her to make no
reference to the time of day or to anything that might recall the
unhappy scene of the night.

For that matter, he also was silent on the subject. He came into the
kitchen, stretching himself tremendously, grinning, in the best
spirits she had seen him in for many months. She could not help but
notice a remarkable change in him, but attributed it to his desire
to have her forget their recent differences. So she met him halfway
in the effort and laughed merrily when he jested about the
professional fraternity he hobnobbed with in camp and at his sly
insinuations that Agatha Liggs would make an adorable stepmother for
some girl. As he picked up his hat to look after his chores he
caught her in his arms, told her how fondly he loved her, and that
her happiness meant everything in the world to him.

But alone, back of the barn, his display of buoyancy vanished. He
gazed down the lane between the two corrals and reënacted in his
mind’s eye his brave capture of the notorious train robber, Billy
Gee, and the way he had marched the outlaw into Sheriff Warburton’s
room in the hotel before daybreak and turned his prisoner over to
the astounded, sleepy-eyed official. Again, he felt an ecstatic
thrill over the realization that he had the certified check of the
Mohave & Southwestern Railroad for ten thousand dollars in his
pocket that very moment!

Nor could he subdue the wild surge of elation that swept through his
breast at thought that his Dot was to receive the long-cherished
education, that here at last, after long, trialsome years of
waiting, was the crystallization of his dead wife’s precious dreams
all but fulfilled. Why couldn’t this sacred woman of his heart have
lived to enjoy this great moment of happiness with him, to know that
all her trying and skimping and dreaming had not been done in vain?
Yes, he decided, Dot would be educated “to the queen’s taste;”
nothing would be spared, nothing would be left undone to make her
the wonderful lady of accomplishments Emily had so desired.

But with all the deep sense of gratification that his reavowal of
intentions gave him and the delight he got from planning the
glorious future, he could not put out of his mind Billy Gee’s last
words to him in Warburton’s room that morning—what Billy Gee had
said, the look in his eyes as he spoke.

“Huntington, I’m goin’ to be free one of these days. When I am, I’m
huntin’ you up. An’ you’re goin’ to pay, Huntington. Remember that!
Damn you, you’ll pay like you never paid in yore life!”

There had been something so frightful, so murderously frightful, in
the threat as it fell from the outlaw’s tight-drawn lips. Try as he
would, Lemuel had not been able to forget the hatred in the man’s
fiery eyes, the icy cut in his voice. He was doomed to be haunted by
them, to have memory rehearse them over and over to him.

True, Billy Gee was even now being taken out of the country,
southwest to the county seat, San Buenaventura, heavily shackled,
under the hawklike eye of Bob Warburton; and countless things would
happen ere the train robber served out the long prison sentence that
confronted him. But the mere fact that he _would_ serve it out, that
he would be free some time, was an overshadowing menace that laid a
firm, clammy hand on Lemuel’s heart.

For many minutes he stood and stared across the plains. Doubtless
Billy Gee would hunt him up and kill him, he told himself nervously.
A vicious bandit of Billy Gee’s ilk would stop at nothing to get
revenge. He shook his head, feeling strangely insecure. After a
little, he recalled Dot’s interest in the fellow. One thing was
certain; she must not even so much as suspect what her father had
done. Not until the episode was old and forgotten must she know what
had happened to the fugitive.

He knew it was not love for Billy Gee that had prompted her to hide
him, help him to escape. Dot was sentimental, romantic; she was just
sorry for the scamp. Most women were that way. But after their
quarrel last night she must never surmise how he had treacherously
spied on her, seen her go into the barn, and lain in wait to capture
the man she was trying to save.

So while Dot prepared their breakfast her father made plans whereby
she might not know for years to come just what had befallen the
magnificent bandit who had ridden into her life out of the magical
violet and yellow scallop of hills. In the first place, Lemuel was
determined to hurry her out of the locality that she might not hear
of the heroic leading rôle he had played; secondly, he cast about
for a logical explanation of how he came to have sufficient money to
afford a journey such as he contemplated. He knew Dot was too
familiar with his affairs not to question his sudden acquisition of
any considerable amount of money. He struck upon a happy solution.

During the meal he mentioned rather casually that he was going to
Geerusalem to see if he could negotiate a loan from Bob Warburton,
and he backed up the propriety of his action by declaring that he
had once come to the sheriff’s assistance when the latter was
financially down and out.

Dot was interested. To her query as to how much he intended
borrowing, Lemuel grinned confidently:

“A coupla thousand dollars, anyway. An’ I’m purty sure to git it, at
that.”

She stared across the table at him, perplexed for the moment. What
in the world possessed her father this morning? He was so changed,
so self-confident, so resolute—as if he were laboring under some
suppressed emotion, some unusual good tidings that he was with
difficulty keeping to himself. The strange way in which she studied
him made him hasten to put at rest any suspicion she may have
entertained.

“I bin thinkin’ it all over, Dot, an’ I decided that what me an’ you
needs most is a leetle more pleasure an’ not so much stickin’ to a
cussed ol’ ranch year in an’ year out like we bin doin’. So I’m
goin’ to borry some real money off Bob, an’ we’re takin’ a
trip—Frisco, Noo York, or any place you say. Le’s be good an’ happy
wunst anyway, an’ see how it feels. What d’you say?”

She brightened instantly. Her eyes widened, sparkled with
expectation. “It’d be just wonderful, daddy,” she cried. “But—but
you’d have to pay the money back some time, and it would be so
hard——”

“We ain’t goin’ to stop to think o’ that, hon. We’re out for one
grand cut-up, me an’ you. Leave it to me. I’ll do the worryin’. If I
git it you’ll go, won’t you?”

“Go?” she echoed joyously. “Oh, daddy! I’ve been wishing and wishing
and wishing, months and months and years, to see cities and orchards
and rivers and steamers and street cars and the ocean, and——”

They talked on, Lemuel controlling by a desperate effort the wild
enthusiasm that consumed him, Dot giving her eagerness unbridled
play, planning and scheduling an itinerary with a dispatch and
thoroughness that made him fairly marvel at her cleverness. Shortly
afterward, however, as he was galloping toward camp he laughed aloud
to the boundless desolation of plain over the shrewd way in which he
had deceived his daughter, clever though she was.

Dot stood on the front porch looking after him. She watched him out
of sight, her brain in a delicious stupor at the glorious prospect
of seeing for the first time in her life the great fairyland far to
the north, that wonderful region she had read and dreamed so much
about. For a long interval she reveled in the thought, until her
eyes turned to the violet and yellow scallop of range in the
distance. Her mind swung back to the present, then to Billy Gee. How
was he faring?

The day was hot, similar to yesterday. It was very silent, too.
Presently it began dawning on her that to-day was different from any
she had ever known. She glanced over the garden. It seemed lonesome;
she had never thought it lonesome before. The feel of the ranch,
too, filled her with an odd depression. Everything looked so
colorless, so uninteresting, so awfully the same. Her eyes went back
to the violet and yellow scallop of hills again. That bleak
playground of mirages where she had visualized the figments of her
imagination, appeared to have lost its magic. The whole range seemed
faded, so wrinkled, so woefully unattractive, like the bleached
outlines of some shabby old crayon. She turned into the house and
entered the parlor.

For many seconds she stood and gazed down at the lounge and began
reviewing, as she had done a number of times, her meeting with the
notorious Billy Gee, from the moment of his coming, until she bade
him good-by in the half light of the hayloft.

“He isn’t the terrible person they say,” she told the parlor lounge.
“There are a lot of worse men in Geerusalem who wear white collars
and polish their shoes every morning. They know how to rob according
to law. They haven’t the courage to take to the open with a
six-shooter. Poor fellow! He was so grateful, and his voice was so
lonely, so gentle.”

She walked into her bedroom, still thinking of him, and it came to
her suddenly that she had hidden the worst criminal of the
generation in that bedroom, that he had occupied her bed even! She
halted in the middle of the floor and blushed furiously over the
reflection. What would her father say if he knew? And her dear old
lady friend, the good Mrs. Agatha Liggs? Or Sheriff Warburton? The
utter recklessness of her act now struck her with full force.

But the next instant she was defending herself with the argument
that Billy Gee was bent on mending his ways. He had promised her he
would reform. She believed him. If he were captured——

For some reason she felt no anxiety on that score. He had been too
confident of his ability to evade the posses, had shown no alarm
over the information that they were out in numbers; besides, he had
mentioned having relatives living close at hand, denoting that he
would find safety with them until such time as he could leave the
country.

“You’re goin’ to hear from me, Miss Huntington, some time,” he had
said.

She experienced a strange little thrill when she recalled that he
was giving up his vicious career solely because she had asked him
to. It was such a satisfying thought, such a proud conceit, to feel
that she, Dot Huntington, had exerted an influence over this elusive
terror of the Southwest who laughed at the law and recognized
nothing binding upon him save the fulfillment of his own personal
desires. Yet, she told herself, she would look forward from now on,
hopefully, with keen anticipation, to the day when she would hear
from him.

While thinking thus, she had been standing near her bed, gazing
abstractedly at the old-fashioned bureau opposite. Now her eyes
became attracted to a narrow edge of green showing just over the top
of the middle drawer. Thoughtfully, she reached down and plucked at
it with thumb and forefinger. She drew it out—a ten-dollar
greenback. For one long instant she stared dumfounded at it. Then
she pulled out the drawer and fell back with a low cry, gazing at
the interior in wide-eyed, fearful amazement. The drawer was piled
high with a disordered mass of currency of all denominations.


CHAPTER VI—AFTERMATH

Geerusalem was a camp of many people of many waspish dispositions.
The engrossing business of making money and spending it kept this
isolated desert settlement steering a more or less wabbly,
law-abiding course, for, like frontier camps the world over, it had
its furious six-shooter forays, stealthy knifings, mob uprisings,
its denizens of dive and den. These things were simply because civic
unity was an unknown quality at the time, the population of the
fly-by-night variety, and the county officials too busy serving the
communities where the majority vote held forth to concern themselves
with the “scattering returns.”

Established before the “blue-sky” law was written into the statute
books of California, this metropolis of Soapweed Plains was the
Mecca of the “wildcatter”—that thrifty, gentlemanly rascal who
tempts gullible men and women of other climes to invest their nest
eggs in mining stock fit only to start the kitchen fire. These
gentry were the leading citizens of Geerusalem, though their
neighbors knew them for what they were; autocratic, pompous fellows,
skimming just under the surface of the law, clever swindlers who
paid homage to none save the mining engineer and the occasional
moody geologist who dropped unannounced into camp. A mineralogist’s
O. K. was a valuable thing to have on a stock prospectus.

The .45-caliber brains with which Lemuel Huntington hobnobbed,
belonged, for the most part, to these wildcatters—promoters, they
styled themselves. He was their standing joke, their dub, the
something at which they could sling the garbage of their talk. From
which it may be surmised that he did not rank very high in the
estimation of this fraternity. Yet, heretofore, he had felt oddly
gratified over the thought that he could associate with them; they
were “big guns,” financially powerful, influential to a great
degree, and they had seemed, to his way of thinking, to be exemplars
of education and refinement.

This morning, however, as he rode into camp from his ranch, on what
he had led Dot to believe was a borrowing expedition, his viewpoint
had undergone a change. He was a far different Lemuel Huntington
from the tolerant, good-natured dub of yesterday. He had captured
the terrible, much-feared desperado, Billy Gee. He had won a
comfortable fortune by his bravery. His Dot was going to receive
that long-dreamed-of education. His breast was filled with it; his
head reeled with his own importance.

Geerusalem was seething with excitement. The main street was clogged
with men, discussing Huntington, Billy Gee, the holdup of the
paymaster’s car, the dramatic entry at daybreak of captor and
captive while shotgun posses scoured the country over a fifty-mile
radius. It was a monumental “catch,” unprecedented in Southwestern
history.

As Lemuel rode into view, some one recognized him. News of his
presence in camp spread like wildfire. A crowd surged after him,
gathering in size. He had not expected an ovation of such an
enthusiastic nature, and it embarrassed him. He wished now that he
had come in by a back street. His face flaming red, flustered, he
looked about over the heads of that stream of humanity that soon
packed the thoroughfare from sidewalk to sidewalk, acclaimed him as
he rode along.

He spied Mrs. Agatha Liggs. She was standing in the doorway of her
little dry-goods store watching his approach. As he came opposite
her he smiled and raised his hat. Then he grew abashed. She had not
acknowledged the salutation. In the belief that she had not seen the
action he bowed again.

She was looking straight at him, and he thought that her thin,
pathetic face was unusually pale and drawn, that her fragile little
body was more stooped, that her lips were strangely pursed. She
looked at him fixedly with an expression in her old eyes so icy, so
accusing, as to make him feel foolish and uncomfortable. That look
of hers flattened out his conceit as nothing else could have done.
He rode on up the street to the bank, dismounted, and went inside,
wondering just why Mrs. Liggs had snubbed him.

The huge crowd that had followed him, collected before the building,
and watching him through the doors and windows, saw him cash the
Mohave & Southwestern’s ten-thousand-dollar certificate check. As he
came out the door, acquaintances began hailing him lustily. He heard
flattering comments of his valor on every hand.

“Gritty chap. You wouldn’t think it to look at him, would you?”

“Brought him in single-handed. Fine work, pardner!”

“Done overnight what a hundred posses couldn’t do in ten years.”

“Good boy, Lem! Oh, you Nick Carter!”

Crimson as a turkey gobbler, sweat streaming down his face, he led
his horse to a livery stable. Then he strutted down the plank
sidewalk, the mob stringing out behind him. Presently he entered an
auto-stage office, talked to the ticket seller about mileage and
rates, and ended by paying down the rental of a machine, to be ready
in an hour. Ten minutes later found him swaggering big-chested into
the U. & I. saloon—hangout of the .45-caliber brains of Geerusalem.
He glanced boldly around at the uppish fraternity, posed about,
fastidious and blasé, deigned them a nod and ordered a drink. This
was the red-letter hour in Lemuel Huntington’s life.

He leaned luxuriously against the bar, peeled off a bill from his
great wad, and to those who came up to congratulate him on his
daring feat, remarked with considerable loftiness: “Yes, I reckon it
takes somepin’ better’n edjucation to handle a man like Billy Gee.”

Downing his drink, he was turning to make his stately way out of the
place, when he heard his name called, and a familiar hand was laid
on his arm. He recognized a young mining engineer friend, a recent
arrival from San Francisco. With him was a tall sharp-eyed man,
twenty-seven or thereabouts, pleasing of face, and with a grave
courtesy that instantly marked him in Lemuel’s mind as a total
stranger to desert life. He was dressed in a whipcord suit that was
partly concealed beneath a voluminous dust coat. On his head was a
golf cap, a pair of goggles thrust up over the visor, and he carried
driving gauntlets in one hand.

“Mr. Huntington, meet Mr. Sangerly,” said the mining engineer. The
two shook hands. “Mr. Sangerly’s father is Western manager of the
Mohave Southwestern, and he wanted to thank you in person for your
splendid service to his company by your capture of this desperado,
Billy Gee.”

Lemuel rubbed his chin in awkward fashion. “There wasn’t nuthin’
much to it, Mr. Sangerly,” he muttered.

“Indeed there was,” declared the other. “Why, this outlaw has robbed
our trains eight times in the last three years. Besides our losses,
Wells Fargo has suffered greatly. You’ve done us what I candidly
look upon as an immeasurable service, and the general office is
being thoroughly informed on the matter.” He paused. “There was a
side issue relative to your capture that I wished to take up
privately with you, Mr. Huntington—if you have time, and if Mr.
Lennox,” glancing at his friend, “will excuse us.”

Three minutes later, they were seated across from each other in a
booth at the rear of the saloon, a table between them, the waiter
departing with their order.

“Now, to start at the beginning, Mr. Huntington,” said Sangerly,
coming directly to the point, “Billy Gee robbed our paymaster’s car
at a grading camp a few miles east of the station of Mirage. This
you doubtless already know. Well, Sheriff Warburton, who had been in
close touch with our Los Angeles office ever since he got on the
bandit’s trail a week ago, wired us the same night of the robbery.
From the tone of his message Billy Gee was heading north and his
capture would be affected within ten hours. That was the gist of the
thing. Anyhow, I started by auto yesterday morning. As it happened,
you beat Warburton to the honors. You brought Billy Gee in, but the
twenty thousand dollars he stole from our paymaster is missing.”

“I’d thought about that,” Lemuel replied. “On our way into camp this
mornin’, I asked him in pertick’lar what’d become of it, an’ he said
it was in safe hands.”

Sangerly lit a cigarette. “That’s what he told Warburton and that’s
what’s keeping me here. I’m going to find out, if possible, who has
that money. I intend to arrest the party as an accomplice and try to
get him—or her—a jail sentence. There’s not the slightest doubt in
my mind that this unknown person has been harboring the outlaw in
the past and has profited at the expense of our company. You heard,
of course, that he is supposed to have relatives somewhere on
Soapweed Plains?”

“I don’t believe it,” said Lemuel. “That’s what Bob Warburton was
tellin’ me. He said the only reason that folks got that idee, was
because after robbin’ a train, Billy Gee’d always head this way an’
disappear. But look at how far it is to the railroad! That’s all
talk.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Mr. Huntington! Don’t forget that this is the
nearest point of habitation. Now, let me explain something to you.”
Sangerly took a pencil from his pocket and began mapping off the
table roughly. “According to the sheriff, with whom I had a long
talk before he left for San Buenaventura this morning, he followed
Billy Gee’s trail over every foot of the way—fifty-odd miles, and
barren desert all of it. By barren, I mean flat, sandy country, and
lacking those landmarks which would tempt any outlaw, hard-pressed,
to hide his plunder. Moreover and most important, Billy Gee was
wounded—shot by one of the paymaster’s crew as he was riding away.
My opinion is, therefore, that he brought the money direct to your
ranch and——”

“I can’t see how you figger that out, Mr. Sangerly,” broke in Lemuel
hurriedly. “Ain’t you kinder insinuatin’ a leetle that I’m in
cahoots with a train robber?” he added in measured tones.

Sangerly hastened to correct the impression. He caught the other’s
hand, shook it laughingly. “The furthest thing from my mind, my
friend,” he declared. “Certainly, I couldn’t imagine an accomplice
doing what you did. It’s not reasonable. It would be ridiculous. But
just follow me and you’ll agree with me that my theory is correct as
to fact. Now, this is the exact situation: Here we have Billy Gee
with Sheriff Warburton at his heels—not over two hours behind, mind
you! Billy Gee is wounded, bleeding badly. He is traveling over a
country as flat as this table, where there is no chance of hiding
his booty with any assurance of ever being able to find it
again—lack of landmarks, you understand? And all the time he is
becoming weaker from loss of blood. From what little I saw of him
to-day it is a question in my mind whether he would have risked
getting off his horse to cache his stealings if he had had a chance,
through fear of not being able to mount again.

“Anyhow, it is certain he was far more concerned over getting his
wound attended to than he was about the money. So he must have
pressed forward as rapidly as his horse could carry him,
particularly since Warburton said that he had him in sight after
daybreak and up to the time he dropped off the mesa onto the plains.
Now, Mr. Huntington, the paymaster’s crew told the sheriff that
Billy Gee stuffed the twenty thousand dollars—currency, all of
it—into his saddlebags, and you brought him in without his
saddlebags, I believe.”

“That’s c’rrect,” agreed Lemuel, with a troubled frown. “I found
he’d crawled in my barn. Afterward, I located his hoss in the far
end of the field. But, it seems to me——”

“I questioned the sheriff carefully on that point, but he said that
all he knew was just what you told him,” interrupted Sangerly. “His
theory was that the fellow turned his horse into your field when no
one was watching and took the opportunity also of hiding his saddle
and saddlebags, later on finding his way into the barn to wait until
night when he might reach the home of his friend or relative
unobserved. That’s what I believe, Mr. Huntington. I am quite
convinced that Billy Gee cached that money on your ranch. He could
lie low at this rendezvous of his, and some dark night when the
whole affair had blown over, he’d simply slip out there and dig up
the treasure. A very natural step to take, in my opinion.”

Lemuel nodded slowly. “It sounds reas’nable, at that. An’ you aim to
look over the ground, I reckon, to see if you kin locate the cache.”

“Precisely. Warburton has promised me he’ll try to sweat the bandit
into confessing. Meanwhile, I’ll work on this end with two railroad
detectives whom I’ve brought with me. You’ll have no objections, of
course, if we spend a few days snooping around the place, Mr.
Huntington?” he asked smilingly.

“Not at all. Me an’ my daughter’s leavin’ for a two-week trip
to-day, but I’ll stick the key under the front doormat, an’ you kin
make yoreself to home.”

Sangerly thanked him. They left the booth and walked out to the
street together. As they parted, Lemuel said:

“When do you figger you’ll be out to the ranch, Mr. Sangerly?”

“This afternoon, some time. Be assured we’ll not abuse your
hospitality, and I hope to see you again on your return. By the
way,” he added, as an afterthought, “I understand you have a
daughter. Did she see Billy Gee, or have any idea of his presence
before his capture? I mean, had she noticed anything that would have
led her to suspect the presence of a stranger in the neighborhood?”

“No, sir,” said Lemuel, with a positive shake of his head. “She was
surprised when I told her. I had to show her the check I got, ’fore
she would believe me. I think you got it sized up about right; this
Billy Gee party jest watched his chanct, reckonin’ on a clean
get-away. He turned his hoss out along with mine to throw off
sespicion, an’ buried his swag where he could come an’ git it
unbeknown to anybody.” He laughed. “You don’t know my Dot, Mr.
Sangerly. If ever there was a real honest-to-goodness little lady,
she’s it—even if I do have to say it. I want you to meet her when we
git back.”


CHAPTER VII—STARTLING PREDICAMENTS

That talk with the son of the Western manager of the Mohave &
Southwestern Railroad did not set well on Lemuel’s mind. Even the
fact that the Geerusalem _Searchlight’s_ bulletin board, with chalky
eloquence, fairly bristling with superlatives, made bold to proclaim
him “California’s Bat Masterson,” carried little if any thrill for
him. Sangerly’s words sounded like trouble in disguise. Sangerly’s
keen deduction of what had happened to the paymaster’s money seemed
alarmingly correct. It seemed more, for on the heels of its apparent
certitude, came the distressing suspicion that Dot, having assisted
Billy Gee during his whole period at the ranch, must know something
about the disappearance of his saddlebags. Sangerly was right. No
man in the bandit’s condition would have lost precious moments
trying to hide his stealings, particularly in a trackless,
changeable sand waste such as lay to the south. It would have been
the height of folly, a useless piece of work, for he never could
have found his cache again. There was not the slightest doubt but
that that twenty thousand dollars was on the Huntington Ranch.

So thought Lemuel, and then he recalled that Sangerly had mentioned
the presence of two railroad detectives who were to aid him in the
search. What if they should dig up evidence involving Dot? Sheriff
Warburton had not so much as hinted about her having harbored the
bandit, from what Sangerly had said; yet Warburton must surely have
suspected it. Bob Warburton certainly was a good friend.

The longer Lemuel reviewed the situation, the more he became
convinced that he must get Dot out of the country before these
detectives began their investigations. He shuddered at the fearful
disgrace were her name mentioned, even in the remotest way, with the
whole ugly affair. He would pack her out of Soapweed Plains
immediately. Later on he would question her. He was fully convinced
that she would give him all the details on the subject without
hesitation when he asked her.

He had still a few minutes left before the time he must report back
to the stage office. These he devoted to hiring a man who would look
after the ranch during their absence. Afterward, he sought the quiet
and seclusion of a back street and wandered aimlessly about, his
mind busy with this new disturbing angle that threatened to sully
the clean name of Huntington. So preoccupied was he, that he
entirely overlooked his intention of paying Mrs. Liggs a visit to
inquire the reason for her cold treatment of him shortly before.

He found the rented machine ready and waiting for him. Clambering in
beside the driver, he was soon whirling out of camp toward home. A
strange sense of security came to him. Sangerly and his sleuths were
left behind, and it would be only a matter of a few short hours ere
he and Dot would be lost in the confusion and bustle of traveling
thousands. The proverbial needle in the haystack would be as easy to
find as they, he told himself.

When within a mile of the ranch he chanced to glance in the
direction of the low line of chromatic hills across which his
acreage extended. A man was trudging along through the greasewood
brush, steering diagonally for the road. He was less than a quarter
of a mile off, and Lemuel squinted at him curiously.

“Who’s that sun lizard? Kin you make him out?” he asked the driver.

The latter looked. “Sure. That’s old Tinnemaha Pete, a prospector.
You must know him. Hangs around Mrs. Liggs’ store a lot. She’s bin
grubstaking him for years, I hear. Some one was telling me he used
to be her husband’s partner.”

Lemuel nodded. “Come to think of it now, I did meet him there
wunst.”

“Poor old devil! If it weren’t for her he’d have starved to death
long ago,” said the driver. “The gold fever sure gets ’em, don’t it?
He’s been going it all his life and never found anything. Never
will, I reckon. One of these days, he’ll go out and the old
desert’ll pick his bones clean. That’s how most of these granddads
end up.”

The machine sped on, its dust cloud trailing across the flat,
enveloping the bent, shriveled form of Tinnemaha Pete, rocking
pathetically along on his unsteady legs, a canvas bag slung over his
shoulder, bound for Geerusalem. Like some misshapen wraith, born of
the grotesqueness and deformity of that wild, mystic desolation, he
fled on, his long gray beard whisking about in the hot breeze, his
baggy clothes bulging and shrinking in the wrench and flip of its
frolicking.

A few minutes later the automobile stopped before the Huntington
gate, and Lemuel sprang out and hurried up the walk toward the
house. Dot, attracted by the approach of the car, had come to the
front door. She greeted her father with an expression of blank
amazement.

“What in the world, daddy——” she began.

“Git ready to travel, hon!” he cried out excitedly, as he put an arm
around her and drew her into the house. “Looket! Looket! We got
money. What d’you think o’ that?” He fished out a handful of bills
and waved them before her face. He broke into a gleeful laugh, so
well assumed that it deceived her. “What’d I tell you, eh? Bob
Warburton come through like a leetle major. Loaned me two thousand
dollars on my note. Think o’ that! Ain’t that jest dandy? Come on,
now! Chuck some duds in a valise. We’re startin’ right out on a big
blow-out. We’re goin’ to see the world—me an’ you.” He romped around
the room with her, like an overjoyed schoolboy.

“But, daddy,” she protested in bewilderment, “how can I? Why, you
don’t give me time to——”

“You don’t need nothin’. I’m goin’ to tog you out complete with a
hull bran’-new outfit, soon’s we hit the city. Hurry up! We ain’t
got all day to talk about it, Dot. We’re strikin’ south to Mirage.
I’m on’y takin’ a shirt an’ a pair o’ socks, myself.” He headed for
his room.

“But who’s to look out after the place, the chickens and stock
and——”

“I got it all fixed for a man to come this afternoon—Billy Higgins,”
he called out. “He’ll ride over from camp every day an’ look around.
Come on, hon! Do’s I say, can’t you? That driver is chargin’ fifteen
dollars an hour.”

Dot capitulated. She hurried into her room and closed the door after
her. Hesitating an instant, she locked it cautiously; then she
dragged a suit case out of the closet and spread it open on the bed.
For some seconds, she stood motionless, undecided, in troubled
thought. In the middle drawer of her bureau lay a fortune in stolen
money. During her father’s absence in camp she had carefully counted
it over to satisfy her suspicions that it was stolen money, and she
had found that it reckoned up to the amount Lemuel had told her was
stolen by Billy Gee from the paymaster’s car of the Mohave &
Southwestern Railroad Company—twenty thousand dollars.

What must she do with it? Here she was the custodian of a great sum,
ill gotten, placed in her hands without her knowledge or consent,
without a word or hint as to what was expected of her. She had been
made an innocent accomplice. She knew that, in the circumstances,
were the house to be searched for this missing booty of Billy Gee,
she would have a desperate time, if the officers should discover
that drawerful of bills, to account for the presence of an amount of
money the same as that lost by the railroad company.

Until her father had burst in upon her, urging this uncalled-for
hurried departure that for some unexplained reason he had given her
not the slightest hint about, she had quite decided that the best
course for her to pursue was to go to Geerusalem and turn the booty
over to the constable or the postmaster, stating simply that she had
found it and wished it returned to its rightful owners. This she had
determined to do in person; for if there was one thing on which she
had firmly settled her mind, it was that Lemuel should be kept in
ignorance about the money. After his display of desperation last
night and the fearful threats he had made, she shrank from telling
him of her discovery, lest in a moment of recklessness he might be
tempted to force her to surrender the treasure to him, and
appropriate it to his own uses. She had grown sick at the terrifying
thought.

Another thing—one that had impressed her more deeply than she really
knew at the time—was the realization that Billy Gee had left her
this fortune out of appreciation for the little she had done for
him. The act bespoke the character of man he was at the core—plunder
though this fortune represented. It was about as big a gift as he
could have made to her. He had risked his life to get it—been shot
and bled white in the bargain. While she and her father had been
quarreling over him he had lain in the darkness of her room,
listening. He had learned that they were very poor, that the dream
of the Huntingtons had been to give their daughter an education,
that, notwithstanding their financial straits, that daughter was not
in favor of surrendering him—outlaw, though he was—to gain the
comforts that ten thousand dollars’ reward would bring. She also
knew that later, in the hayloft, he had purposely misled her as to
the contents of his saddlebags, in order to make his secret gift
certain of acceptance.

Just now she stood in her room and pondered over what she should do
with this unwelcome gift, since her father’s impetuousness had upset
her plans. She reasoned that it would be nothing short of folly to
leave the money hidden until their return, thus risking its loss by
fire or theft. There seemed no other way except to take it along
with her. They wouldn’t be gone but a few days, perhaps two weeks at
the longest. Once back home she could carry out her original
intention of putting it in the hands of the Geerusalem authorities
for transmission to the general offices of the Mohave & Southwestern
Railroad.

So thinking, she opened the bureau drawer and hurriedly wrapped up
the stacks of bills in her mother’s old silk shawl, tied the bundle
securely with string, and packed it into the suit case along with
some articles of clothing. Then she began dressing, in a growing
fury of joyful anticipation and excitement, for her long-wished-for
trip to a big city was at hand, her longing of years to be gratified
at last.

Half an hour after Lemuel arrived from camp he was locking the front
door of his home and placing the key under the mat for Sangerly. He
walked slowly down the gravel path to the gate and crossed the
garden toward the trim little grave under the drooping pepper tree.
Wistfully he gazed down at it, and the moisture crept into his eyes
when he saw Dot kneel and kiss the tips of her fingers and press
them gently on the mound.

“Little angel mother,” she breathed. “How I wish you were going with
us. How I wish you were here, darling.”

The chauffeur, sitting in the machine outside the gate, averted his
head and looked away into the gaunt desolation of the plain.

Shortly afterward, father and daughter were comfortably settled in
the rear seat and, like two children embarking on some glorious
adventure, began their journey down the hot sandy floor of Soapweed
Plains, bound for the dreary railroad station of Mirage. They
reached there around four o’clock, ate dinner in the combination
saloon-store-restaurant, and boarded the northbound train at dark.

It so happened that, owing to the joyous anticipation and breathless
conjecture with which the trip itself engrossed her, not until the
conductor came down the aisle to collect the tickets was Dot
suddenly reminded that she had not asked her father how long he
contemplated being gone. The uniformed person had passed on when she
broached the subject.

“Are we going to be away very long, daddy?” she asked.

“We sure are,” said Lemuel cheerfully. “We’re out for a big time.
What I mean—big. An’ we’re goin’ to see everything worth seein’, you
kin gamble on that, Dot. If there’s anything your little heart
desires, jest say so.”

“But how long—about a week or so?” she persisted. “There was
something I wanted to attend to when I get back.”

“Get back?” laughed Lemuel. “Now listen here, hon! Furst, me an’
you’s goin’ to have the fling of our young lives. Then——” He broke
off and, looking fixedly at her, grinned oddly. “You’ve seen the
last of Soapweed Plains, Dot, for anyway three years. I’m toggin’
you up like a queen, an’ you’re sailin’ into Longwell’s Seminary for
to be edjucated. That’s the main reason why I borried the money.”

Dot stared at him incredulously. Then, marking the strange set to
his jaws, the triumphant glint in his habitually mild eyes, cold
fear gripped her heart suddenly.

“Three years!” she choked. “Daddy, you’ve—you’ve deceived me. You’ve
lied to me——”

“I’ve done it for your own good, Dot. ’Tain’t wrong to lie when it’s
to help some one you love.” He paused. “You say you got somepn to
’tend to. Is that why you want to git back home?” he asked, his mind
on the missing paymaster’s money.

“Not altogether. But—but it’s one of the reasons.”

“An’ it’s important, ain’t it, honey?” As he spoke he bent his head
and gazed up into her face, his expression crafty, knowing.

“Not so important as caring for you, daddy,” she returned brokenly.
“Nothing in this world matters so much as that.”

He did not press the subject. He sat back in his seat and studied
his horny hands wistfully.

Shortly afterward, Dot began arguing against this decision of his to
send her to school. They talked for two straight hours, she
objecting on every ground she could think of, he countering
stubbornly, now besting her, again being himself bested. Spiritedly
she protested. She was too old to go to school; they needed the
money for other purposes; she wouldn’t leave him to live alone on
the ranch; she didn’t want an education. But all her vehemence and
tears and supplications were of no avail. There was no shaking the
determination of Lemuel Huntington.

So, in sheer exhaustion, she finally gave up and, lapsing into
silence, devoted herself to the solution of the momentous problem of
what she should do with the stolen treasure she was bringing along
with her, wrapped in her mother’s old silk shawl.

After long reflection she concluded she would turn it over to the
San Francisco authorities on her arrival, reasoning that it really
did not matter which civil authorities received it, since it would
be forwarded to the railroad company anyway. Having relieved her
mind thus, her thoughts drifted to Billy Gee, and she found herself
wondering lingeringly about him and if the wound in his head were
giving him much trouble, where he might be in that great, lonely
void of desert far to the south, if he were thinking of her.
Foolish, vagrant little thoughts, they were; but somehow, they
seemed to her to be very serious indeed, and so pleasing as to bring
a warmth to her cheeks, and so tragic as to cause the tears to form
in her eyes.

Lemuel sat and also reflected, but his thoughts were of another
sort, a legion of sleep-dispelling meditations that crowded his
brain, clamoring for review. He was so jubilant with himself and the
fulfillment of the big dream of his life. His mind in a riot of
joyous anticipation, he sat planning to make his brief stay in San
Francisco an epochal event.

He threw back his head against the high back of his plush seat and
chuckled silently at the clever manner in which he had enticed Dot
into leaving the ranch, how splendidly his lie about borrowing two
thousand dollars from Sheriff Warburton had worked out, how
successfully he had manipulated affairs so that Dot would possibly
never know that her father had played the sneak to effect the
capture of Billy Gee. Yes, and there was also considerable
satisfaction for him in the knowledge that he, Lemuel, had spirited
his Dot out of the country before Sangerly and his bloodhounds could
even see her, not to mention interview her.

He told himself that if for no other reason than to insure her
against annoyance he would likewise keep her whereabouts secret. No
one would know that she was attending the Longwell Seminary until
the search for the missing twenty thousand dollars had come to an
end. Meanwhile, he would contrive to question her and find out what
she knew about those saddlebags and their contents. Dot would tell
him, of that he felt quite sure; and some day perhaps, when the
whole thing was ancient history, and she had graduated with high
honors, he would tell her how her father had captured,
single-handed, the far-famed daring desperado, Billy Gee, and why he
had done it.

Morning found him still wide-eyed, staring unseeingly out of the car
window at the multiplying miles of rich San Joaquin Valley acreage
flashing by. Around seven o’clock the train stopped for a few
minutes at Tracy, a junction town, and passengers from the north
began piling in.

A newsboy came hurrying down the aisle, clamoring his wares
excitedly. Lemuel hailed the youngster and bought a paper. Dot still
slept and, seeing this, he settled himself comfortably in the seat
to read. The following instant he caught his breath in sudden alarm,
and sat bolt upright. His face paling through its tan, he glared
with bulging eyes at the three words printed in large display type
across the top of the first page.

                     DESPERATE BANDIT ESCAPES!

  Billy Gee Attacks Sheriff, Plunges From Fast-moving Train Near
  Burbank.

For a long moment, Lemuel continued to glare fearfully at those
headlines, then he sank limply back in his seat.

He felt Dot stir and, looking guiltily at her, saw that she was
waking. Whereupon, he stuffed the paper into his pocket and
presently rose and walked unsteadily out of the coach, heading for
the smoking car. From that instant forward, he carried day and night
in his mind a picture of Billy Gee standing in Sheriff Warburton’s
room in Geerusalem and he heard again the bandit’s ominous threat:

“Huntington, I’m goin’ to be free one of these days. When I am, I’m
huntin’ you up. An’ you’re goin’ to pay, Huntington. Remember that!
Damn you, you’ll pay like you never paid in yore life!”


CHAPTER VIII—LAVENDER AND OLD LACE

Alexander Sangerly—“Lex” Sangerly, his friends called him—was a
democratic type of Californian, who did not believe that the fact of
his father being Western manager of the Mohave & Southwestern
Railroad system should of necessity mean that that father’s son must
take any exalted credit unto himself. So, notwithstanding the fact
that Lex held the important post of division superintendent of the
road, he was not above meeting the rank and file of his departments
on their own plane, mixing with them, addressing them by their given
names, and conducting himself generally in business as well as
social affairs very much like any red-blooded human.

Incidentally, it might be well to mention that, although only
twenty-seven years old, he was already blossoming out into a
prominent railroad figure, with the likelihood of making good future
presidential timber for some transcontinental road.

The gold camp of Geerusalem was Lex’s first acquaintance with a
desert bonanza settlement, that is, one in the high noon of its
prosperity, its mines giving up great fortunes, its people drunk
with success scattering their wealth prodigally, its night life
unlicensed, violent with rashness and lust; yet Geerusalem with all
its lawlessness gripped him with a compelling fascination, the
fascination one feels who looks for the first time on something
horribly real, incredible of human toleration, though tolerated and
upheld by a civilized population that drops back to the primitive
when the law is weak.

However, apart from his curiosity and interest in this wild, waspish
desert camp, Lex had by chance discovered, on the very day of his
arrival, a far more important reason why he was glad he had come to
Geerusalem. As he was driving his high-powered roadster up the main
street his eye alighted on a modest little signboard nailed above a
tiny store, crowded between two large adobe buildings. It read:
“Mrs. Agatha Liggs, Dry Goods.”

He had read that modest little sign, with a thrill of joy. There
could be but one Agatha Liggs in the whole wide world, he told
himself, and that was the dear little woman whom he had known far
back in his boyhood days—the mother of his chum and pal, Jerome
Liggs.

His earliest memory of Mrs. Liggs and her son dated back to when he
was five years old, living in the archaic town of San José, with his
parents, during the dark period of his father’s striving to rise out
of the rut of clerkship. The two families had been next-door
neighbors for a number of years, and he remembered Jerome’s father
as a big jovial man, who used to drive a truck by day and play cards
with the elder Sangerly by night.

Jerome and Lex attended the same school. Mrs. Liggs’ son was a
sturdy, fearless youngster, the dunce of his class. Lex, on the
other hand, was timid and delicate, studious and a star scholar.
Singularly enough, they had formed a great friendship, perhaps
because of their very contrariness of character one to the other and
their natural tendency to lean on each other, as it were. Lex never
really knew how many times doughty Jerome had stepped in and
thrashed a boy bully for him, but he did know that these services
more than amply repaid him for the innumerable times that he had
helped his champion with problems in arithmetic, grammar, spelling,
and the rest of the educational mysteries. Nor could he ever
remember the number of occasions he had shared Jerome’s bed
overnight; nor had he ever forgotten the countless fat slices of
Mrs. Liggs’ pumpkin pie he had devoured.

Up to the age of twelve, this Damon-Pythias comradeship had
continued uninterruptedly. Then came the day when Sangerly, senior,
had invented a cold-storage system that had promptly found marked
favor with the Mohave & Southwestern Railroad, with the result that,
besides purchasing his patents, it employed him to oversee the
installation of the apparatus in its refrigerator cars.

In the years following the departure of the Sangerlys from San José,
the Liggs’ family had dropped out of sight. Lex had once heard from
a mutual friend that Jerome’s father had been killed in an accident,
and that the widow had moved to the southern part of the State. But
though he had never found out what had become of him, he always
retained a tender memory of his boy chum, and there seemed nothing
that could ever blot out his respect for the lowly pumpkin pie. Now
here at last, he had suddenly discovered, in this uproarious
frontier settlement of Geerusalem, of all places, the motherly
little Mrs. Liggs.

It is scarcely to be wondered at then, that after his talk with
Lemuel Huntington in the U. & I. saloon, and before he began his
search for the vanished twenty thousand dollars, he must first pay a
visit to that diminutive dry-goods store on the main street. At the
very moment that Dot’s father was speeding out of town in the
automobile that was to take him and his daughter on the first leg of
their journey to San Francisco, Lex brought his roadster to a stop
before Mrs. Liggs’ establishment.

He found to his surprise that the place was to all appearances
closed for the day, the blind drawn down over the display window.
Nevertheless, he knocked sharply and peered into the dark interior
through the small glass panel in the upper half of the door.
Presently the door in the rear of the store opened, and, after a
short hesitation, the proprietress herself came walking slowly
forward, wiping her eyes on her apron, arranging her white hair and
smoothing out her immaculate, stiffly-starched dress. The next
moment she was standing in the doorway, looking inquiringly at him
through her spectacles.

“Mother Liggs! Bless your dear old heart!” he cried out in a voice
vibrant with feeling. “Don’t you know me? Lex Sangerly!” He beamed
on her, while she, squinting up at him, searched his face with
infinite gravity, a trace of suspicion in her look.

She was a tiny, tired-out mite of a woman, around sixty-five, her
hair like snowy silk, her eyes a faded blue, large, and just now
showing indications of recent tears. Her dress, muslin and rather
old-fashionedly made, was the most correct thing in feminine attire
worn in the camp; at least, so declared the godless population of
Geerusalem.

She studied her visitor for a few seconds, then her eyes lighted up
like twin stars. “Lex—Lex Sangerly! You dearest, dearest boy. Of all
things—Lex Sangerly! Oh, I’m so—so glad to see you, Lex. So awful
glad to see you——” She choked suddenly.

Clutching his hand, she led him inside, locked the door and,
chattering her joy, escorted him to the little living room back of
the store. She insisted on his occupying her best chair, fixed a
footstool for him under his feet, and sat close beside him, feasting
her gaze on him, listening hungrily while he talked. And this he
did, regaling her with a summary of what he and his family had been
doing since she last saw them. It was a dazzling recital of
achievement, with happiness and success through every portion of it,
one of those inspiring narratives that makes one’s failures seem
more prodigious than they really are.

“And now,” he concluded, “the old man has ordered me to camp out
here on this desert until I find out what Billy Gee—the notorious
outlaw who was captured last night—did with the twenty thousand
dollars he stole from our company. I guess you’ve heard all about
it.”

She had taken up her knitting while he talked, her fingers
manipulating the needles mechanically, though her eyes never left
his face. She stopped now to disentangle a snarl and bent her head
over it, plucking nervously at the yarn.

“Yes, I’ve heard,” she said, at last. “Have you any idea, Lex——”

“Not the slightest. I’m making a search of Mr. Huntington’s ranch.
That’s where he was caught, you know. By the way, you must know
Huntington—a rancher, south of here?”

She nodded as she resumed her knitting. “He made ten thousand
dollars mighty easy. The easiest money Lem Huntington ever
made—bringing in a dying man.” There was a strain of bitterness in
her tones.

“He has rendered the community a great service, Mother Liggs; we
can’t overlook that fact,” said Lex. “This wretched scoundrel, Billy
Gee, has held up M. & S. trains for the past three years, robbed
passengers, and laughed at every posse that ever took up his trail.
He’s always been invincible, I hear, managing to slip his pursuers
whenever he wanted to. He’s been a menace.”

“That might all be, Lex, but there’s some good in the worst of us.
You’ll admit that, won’t you?”

He smiled. “You’re not very familiar with this crook’s exploits, I
can see that, Mother Liggs. Why, trainmen who have brushed up
against him say he’d as soon kill a man as look at him.”

An audible gasp broke from her. Her thin face paled and set ever so
little, while into her faded eyes rose a flickering fire.

“It ain’t true. It’s—it’s sinful for any one to say such a thing.
Lex, I want to tell you something about Billy Gee that you can
believe, because I never lie, and that is—he’s given away every cent
he ever stole. Don’t ask me how I know. Ask any man on the street,
and he’ll tell you that there’ll be more broken hearts and empty
cupboards now that Billy Gee is—is gone, than if the Geerusalem
mines shut down to-morrow.” She paused, then added: “I know it don’t
sound just right, Lex, but I wish—I wish he’d never been caught.”

Sangerly regarded her curiously for a moment. Some appealing, subtle
sadness he saw in her face caused him to burst out with a merry
laugh and lean over and take her in his arms.

“I wouldn’t try to disillusion you for the world, you darling,” he
cried, as he kissed her. “You nor any other woman could condemn a
man of Billy Gee’s type. You all feel for the wayward man. You pity
him. You want to help him, for that is the blessed mission of this
wonderful mother love of yours.” He digressed, with a broad smile:
“Before I forget, I want to take you out for some real joy rides in
a new roadster I have; which means, of course, that you must
introduce me around among the first families of Geerusalem. I want
to be initiated into the mysteries of bacon and beans and sour dough
bread.”

She returned his smile and looked at him, admiration in her eyes.
“Did you meet Dot—Lem Huntington’s daughter?” she asked presently.

“No. She’s one of the belles of the camp, I suppose?”

“Dot Huntington is one of the finest girls in the West, Lex.”

“Whew! You’re some little booster. Pretty?”

“Pretty as a picture, and sensible. That’s a combination you don’t
often find, Lex, and you know it. She’s a girl any man would kneel
to,” she said solemnly.

“Mother Liggs, you interest me. You must tell me more about this
charming young lady. I want to meet her. You see, I’ve always
believed my San Francisco girl was the prize winner, but it just may
be that this fair daughter of Geerusalem is—well, I’ll tell you
after I see her.” He paused, then resumed seriously: “Right now, I
want to hear about your own affairs. How have you been getting along
all these years? And you haven’t even mentioned Jerome. Where is
he?”

It was very quiet in Mrs. Liggs’ living quarters, quite like a
sanctuary; the three rooms flanked on either side by drab adobe
walls and overlooking a back yard of some size, cut up into little
plots—the only flower garden in Geerusalem, with a patch of
vegetables growing in one corner. A gate opened into a narrow
alleyway that led to the rear street.

“Jerome?” echoed Mrs. Liggs, after a short silence. She was gazing
intently at her knitting. “Jerome is dead, Lex.” She spoke slowly,
haltingly.

“Dead!”

He looked hard at the snowy bowed head a moment. Then he drew her
gently to him again and laid his cheek against hers.

“I am so sorry to hear that,” he said in a voice that was tenderly
sympathetic. “How long ago——”

“Lex, deary!” she broke in sobbingly. “Don’t let’s talk about
it—please! The wound is too fresh, the pain in my heart is too—I
can’t explain. Some of these days maybe, I’ll tell you the story.
There ain’t many that would understand—that would believe. I know
you could, ’cos—’cos you and Jerome were such good friends. When I
saw you, you looking so—so happy and prosperous, I just—I just
couldn’t help thinking that my boy——” She couldn’t finish. Burying
her face in her apron, she wept disconsolately as if her heart would
break.

Some time afterward, she told him about herself from the day fifteen
years ago, that the Sangerlys moved from San José, and he remarked
that it was much the same tale of striving that any of thousands of
American mothers might relate—the indomitable, ceaseless struggle to
get ahead.

“Then, after Mr. Liggs’ death, we drifted north to Marysville,” she
concluded wearily. “I went into the delicatessen business and did
well. One day, Jerome—it was a hard battle alone, Lex, but I managed
to save money, and afterward I came to Geerusalem and opened this
store. I’m the only woman in business here, and every one patronizes
me. The boys won’t allow anybody to run opposition to me,” she
added, with a faint smile.

Two hours passed quickly, considering that Mrs. Liggs insisted that
Lex have lunch with her, disregarding his attempts to explain that
he had an appointment with his two detectives at one o’clock.

So it was early afternoon when he finally picked up his hat and
prepared to leave. At that juncture, a sharp knock sounded on the
kitchen door, and the following moment, Mrs. Liggs was ushering
forward an outlandish, shriveled-up, old fellow of seventy, who
halted suddenly in the center of the room and fastened a pair of
watery blue eyes suspiciously on Lex.

“This is Tinnemaha Pete, Lex,” said Mrs. Liggs. “He’s my prospector,
and some day we’re going to strike it rich. Ain’t we, Pete? This is
Mr. Sangerly. I knew him when he wore long curls, Pete, and he used
to cuddle up in my lap and go to sleep. Didn’t you, Lex?”

“I see that ornery skunk, Lem Huntington, sashayin’ round in a
ottermobile—too cussed lazy to drive hisself,” cackled the funny,
little old man. “Hell burn his rotten hide! I’d like to—— Hoo, hoo!
I’ll fix the stink-cat. See ef I don’t! What’s yore business, Mr.
Spangaree? You’re sorter high-toned, ain’t you? City duck, what?” He
tossed a bulging canvas sack he carried on his shoulder into a
corner of the room. “There’s some rock, Agatha—tol’rable good,
tol’rable good.”

Tinnemaha Pete was a horrible example of what the Southwestern
desert does to men who sneer at its death-dealing forces and flirt
with its snares too long. His body was warped, twisted, broken, his
skin dry and tough as weathered leather, his eyes rheumy, burned out
by sun glare. A pathetically few thin long hairs of beard still
remained to him, and a scanty rim of gray circling the back of his
bony, bald head, were the only evidences of a once shaggy brown
thatch with which nature had endowed him.

Tinnemaha Pete, however, knew the Mohave Desert from center to
circumference better than any man of those times, it was freely
conceded. Whatever that gaunt, fiery, dead land had done to him,
however hard it had striven to lay him a paralyzed heap to roast
alive on its molten bosom, it had not killed the questing spirit of
the prospector in him. Winter and summer, for a quarter of a century
and more, he had searched and searched and searched that vast
solitude for the undiscovered treasures which his experience told
him must be somewhere embedded in those countless, chromatic ranges
that crisscrossed that untrodden principality.

Through his years of wandering he had come to know the face of the
Mohave as intimately as he knew the vile, black, short-stemmed pipe
he smoked. What was equally, if not more, important, he had taught
Billy Gee what he knew of that desert, thereby making the bandit
invincible when fleeing over this no man’s land, with posses yelping
at his heels.

A few minutes after the arrival of Tinnemaha Pete, Lex took his
departure. Mrs. Liggs saw him to the street door and stood watching
him wistfully as he drove away up the street. Then she shuffled
tiredly back to the living room, dropped into a chair, and buried
her face in her hands. Tinnemaha Pete peered hard at her, his lips
moving, guttural sounds issuing from his throat.

“What ails ye?” he cried out. “What ails ye, Agatha?”

And because he surmised and was powerless to help her, he started a
wild falsettoed string of abuse leveled at Lemuel Huntington,
Sheriff Warburton, and that destiny to whose exactions all men must
yield themselves.

“Jerome, son!” sobbed Mrs. Liggs forlornly. “Why couldn’t you have
been like him? Dear God, what have I done that I should suffer like
this? My burden is so heavy. Lord, so awful heavy. Pete—Pete, that
was Jerome’s chum, his boyhood chum. And I—I had to tell him Jerome
was—was dead. I—I just couldn’t tell him the—the truth.”

The queer old desert rat broke into a gale of insane laughter. “Mark
me! Cuss-durn me, you mark me, Agatha!” he squeaked excitedly, his
watery eyes afire. He trotted up to her side and shook a dried claw
of a finger into her face. “Mark ye! Let Jerome boy git clear of
that scalawag politician sheriff, an’ he’ll be off like a
jackrabbit! Hain’t I learned him how to hide an’ go seek in that
sand pile? Eh, hain’t I? Glory be, she’s a grand sand pile, Agatha!
An’ he knows her, Jerome does—every hide-out, every water hole, the
ol’ Injun trails, the ornery tricks of her an’—an’ there’s scores on
scores of box cañons, that he knows, that he kin crawl out of an’
give Mr. Sheriff the hoss laugh. Yes, he kin. An’ nobody knows ’em,
but me an’ him. Wommin! He’ll be off like a jackrabbit, I tell ye,
wunst he’s in the clear.” He paused, glaring about the room. The
canvas sack he had thrown in the corner caught his eye. “There’s the
rock he asked you to have me git him, Agatha. It’s lousy—plumb lousy
with gold, d’ye mark? An’ the ledge’ll go down to hell, she’s that
true. I’ve called her the ‘Billy Geerusalem,’” he added in a furious
whisper.


CHAPTER IX—EVIDENCE TO CONVICT

Meanwhile, Lex Sangerly met the two railroad detectives and, after a
short conference in the hotel office, the three motored out to the
Huntington ranch. It was around four o’clock when they admitted
themselves into the house with the key Lemuel had placed under the
doormat. The sleuths, Ray Coates and Harry Tyler—former
plain-clothes men of the Los Angeles police department—began an
exhaustive investigation of the grounds and outhouses. They found
the tracks of Billy Gee approaching the ranch from across the plains
and even traced the outlaw’s progress into the dwelling. It required
painstaking effort to do this last, and the continued use of a
magnifying glass by which they followed the disconnected, faint
trail of blood specks, from the spot where Dot had dragged the
wounded bandit out of the saddle until she finally got him indoors.
These two Mohave & Southwestern bloodhounds also established the
incriminating fact that Billy Gee had occupied the parlor lounge. To
them, it was a cinch case, circumstantial evidence pointing
conclusively to the outlaw having received aid either from Lemuel or
his daughter.

As for Lex, he had lingered inside. He had made two discoveries,
both impressive ones. Wandering into Huntington’s room, he had come
upon a photograph of a girl. It was standing on the bureau—a
photograph of Dot taken a year before in Geerusalem and showing her
in the first full bloom of charming womanhood. He picked up the
picture and looked at it for a long time. It engrossed him in an odd
way, for he was struck by the freshness and sensitiveness of the
face, by the wholesome, gentle expression in the great eyes, withal,
by that indefinable charm that attaches only to things of desert
life, be they a humble wild flower, a mocking bird’s nest in a
cactus, or a daughter of the range.

Curiosity led him at last to steal a glance into the room this
remarkably pretty girl occupied. He entered it rather hesitatingly
and surveyed its interior. It was a clean little room, plainly
furnished, but there were artistic touches of color here and there
that gave it a peculiar cheer and warmth, and in a frame against the
wall was a picture of Mrs. Agatha Liggs! The sight of that picture
pleased him. It did more. The longer he gazed at it, the greater
became that pleasure and, though he did not pause to ascertain the
cause, he felt himself grow kindly inclined toward this stranger
girl, as if, in some unknown way, he already knew her.

Presently he made his second discovery. Inspecting the scarcely
visible, bloody finger prints of a man on the window sill, he
straightway satisfied himself that their owner had climbed out of
Dot’s room through the window. Further investigation of the soft
soil of the garden beneath that window revealed not only a man’s
tracks, but a woman’s, the latter’s showing that she had both left
and reëntered the house by the same route.

For some moments Lex stood and thought gravely over this new angle
in the case. There was no blinking the fact that Billy Gee had been
befriended and that his benefactor was quite obviously Dot
Huntington. It seemed incredible, judging from the high praise Mrs.
Liggs had accorded the girl—and he knew Mrs. Liggs’ stanch regard
for the truth.

Yet here was irrefutable proof pointing to a wounded man escaping
from the house, assisted by a woman, who—it was a natural deduction
in the circumstances—after she had seen him safely away, returned to
her room by a route plainly intended to conceal her actions; and the
only apparent reason for secrecy, as far as he could see, appeared
to be fear of discovery by some one in the house, that some one
being Lemuel Huntington. Granting this were true, it was more than
probable that a love affair existed between this notorious desperado
and the rancher’s daughter, of which her father was ignorant; for,
Lex argued, no girl, unless she were deeply interested in him, would
be so indiscreet as to clamber through a window, out of her own
bedroom, with a man, shot and bleeding, a man, whose presence in the
house she dared not reveal to her father.

The footsteps of the two detectives on the back porch, disturbed his
train of thought. Presently he heard the pair tramping about the
kitchen. A few moments later, Coates—a hard-eyed, poker-faced
individual, never without a cigar in his mouth—threw open the door
and walked in.

“We found the saddlebags, saddle and bridle, Mr. Sangerly. They’re
smeared over with blood. Somebody hid ’em pretty carefully,” he
announced, with a cocksure jerk of his head.

“Where?”

“In the barn. The bags were in the loft, covered over with hay. The
saddle, Tyler dug up from under a pile of old gunny sacks. There’s a
bed been made in the loft, and somebody ate lunch there not later’n
yesterday. There’s soft bread crumbs layin’ around.”

“Then our theory that Billy Gee cached the money here is about
right, isn’t it?” said Lex quietly.

“I’ll tell the world,” sniggered Coates. “And what’s more, he had a
swell little accomplice to help him put it over.”

Tyler entered the room at this juncture. He was a ferretlike, wiry
man, smileless and resolute of eye, with a close-cropped, iron-gray
mustache and a permanent frown.

“There’s nothing to it, Mr. Sangerly. We’ve got enough evidence to
pinch Huntington and his daughter on suspicion,” he said crisply.
“It’s a cinch Billy Gee got all kinds of help here. We’ve
established the fact he rode up here from across country and was
dragged into the house by a woman who doctored him on the parlor
couch. At the back of the barn, just outside the door, we find a
coupla rolled-up blankets tied for slinging over the shoulder with
this,” holding up two strips of calico for the other’s inspection;
“and in the kitchen is the apron this cloth was torn from. Now my
theory is that Huntington’s daughter——”

“I can’t see that it makes much difference, now that this bandit has
been captured, whether he received aid or not,” interrupted Lex.
“It’s not improbable that he was given help. When a man is wounded,
people as a rule don’t stop to ask questions. But I don’t think it
follows that Billy Gee would tell any one what was in his
saddlebags. You seem to forget you’re dealing with a cold-blooded
professional highwayman with a price on his head, not a sentimental
novice. This chap isn’t a movie bad man. He’s the real thing, as we
have good reason to know. If he cached that money on this ranch, he
did it alone——”

“I was going to say, Mr. Sangerly,” broke in Tyler respectfully, in
his turn, “that we can’t be too awful sure of this girl not being
wise. Billy Gee’s record shows he’s a damn fool with his coin—gives
it away like a drunken Indian, that’s what they say around camp.”

“After we have satisfied ourselves completely that the money cannot
be found, it will be time enough to confront the girl, Tyler. It
doesn’t seem quite fair to me to accuse people of a thing of this
sort, to brand them accomplices of a criminal, when they have opened
their home to us as hospitably as the Huntingtons have. Besides,
Huntington is the man whom we have to thank for capturing Billy Gee
when every one else failed. You might as well say that this rancher
made a double clean-up—got away with the bandit’s swag and also
collected the reward.”

“That’s just exactly what I’ve been thinking,” declared Coates
stoutly; “and I agree with Tyler that the girl is in on the deal.
There’s some pretty slick birds among these desert rats, Mr.
Sangerly, let me tell you. It’s damned funny to me why they beat it
out of the country, so all of a sudden. It’s the Bunker Hill, if you
want my opinion on the matter.”

Lex gazed thoughtfully across the room, at the picture of Mrs.
Liggs.

“And supposing they’re sweethearts, sir,” ventured Tyler. “It ain’t
impossible. The police records are crammed with stranger cases than
that. If they’re intimate, she’d be in on the game, wouldn’t she?
And it’d be the easiest thing going for her to hide that twenty
thousand where nobody’d find it. Another thing, Billy Gee, according
to all reports, has either relatives or mighty close friends in
Soapweed Plains.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, men,” said Lex finally. “I’m going back
to town to-night, and I’ll ascertain all about Miss Huntington—if
she has a sweetheart, the type of girl she is, everything regarding
the family. In the meantime, drop this accomplice business and
settle down to a systematic, thorough search.”

It was dusk when Lex stopped his machine before Mrs. Liggs’
dry-goods store. The night life of Geerusalem was beginning to
waken, stretching itself like some blinking giant making ready to be
off on his rampant adventuring. For five crooked blocks down the
wide gulch which sloped gently out of the hills, onto the smooth
floor of Soapweed Plains, the main street was ablaze with lights,
pouring from business houses, saloons, gambling houses, and dance
halls. Already the sidewalks were packed with as heterogeneous a
stream of humanity as may be seen only in those out-of-the-way
places of earth where men have discovered fabulous wealth bursting
from the rock.

Here swaggered the hordes of miners coming off shift from a hundred
working properties in the neighboring hills, grimy, spattered with
candle grease, and adding to the bustle and confusion of the
gold-mad crowd, was the torrent of traffic that surged up and down
the rough, rocky thoroughfare—wagons of every description from the
slim rattletrap buckboard, up through the various stages of all
known vehicles, great freighter’s outfits, horse-drawn hacks, carts,
automobiles; all these contributed to the bedlam that roared through
the hills from early dawn to midnight, incessantly from one day to
another.

Lex stepped out of the roadster and began shouldering his way across
the sidewalk to Mrs. Liggs’ store. He suddenly noticed that the
place was open, the display window brilliantly lighted up, and he
made out over the heads of the throng, the figure of the little
proprietress bustling energetically about behind the counter,
waiting on customers. The marked difference between his visit that
afternoon, when he had found the establishment closed and its owner
showing traces of prolonged grief, and his present one, caused him
to wonder curiously. The next moment, however, an unlooked-for
incident drove the thought from his mind.

He had almost cleared the jam on the sidewalk and was within a step
of the store entrance, when a man collided heavily with him. As he
staggered back into the arms of one of the crowd, a coarse voice
yelled in his ear:

“What the hell! Look where you’re going, you poor fish!”

Lex got his feet and stood blocking the other’s way, gazing steadily
at him. The press of men around them, sensing trouble, scattered
like magic, for it was no unusual thing for revolvers to flash at
the least provocation.

The man before him was big and powerfully built, forty-five or
thereabouts, with heavy face and piercing, arrogant, coal-black
eyes. His clothes—Norfolk suit of the finest whipcord, silk shirt,
jaunty, stiff-brimmed Stetson and nap-a-tan half boots of superior
quality—his whole bearing, in fact, stamped him a person of wealth
and prominence.

There was a tragic silence. In that brief interval, the center of
the street was a solid mass of staring humanity, the two principals
standing alone, the hub of a wide circle. Even Mrs. Liggs, attracted
by the sudden commotion, stood watching now, pale and trembling,
from the rear of the store, her eyes riveted on the contestants
facing each other before her door.

“Perhaps you’d better look where _you’re_ going, neighbor,” said Lex
finally, in a dangerously quiet tone.

The other’s lip curled, and his eyes flamed with contempt. He
sneered. “I see you don’t know who you’re talking to——”

“I don’t care and have no desire to know,” cut in Lex. “What I want
to know is, are you looking for trouble?”

The man regarded him hatefully before he spoke, then he said in low,
sibilant tones, intended only for Lex’s ears. “One word from me—one
signal—and you’d be riddled with bullets where you stand. I don’t
like you, stranger, because you’re just that, a stranger. But I
admire an equal, able and willing to fight for his rights. You say
you don’t care to know me. You ask me if I’m looking for trouble.
You haven’t got a chance in the world against me. Look for
yourself!”

Without averting his gaze from Lex’s face, he raised his voice:
“Hey, gang! Quintell men come forward!”

A sudden movement ran over the multitude. The open circle began
filling rapidly, as scores of hitherto curious onlookers obeyed the
order. They halted, silent and ominous—members of that army of
undesirables which forms a large percentage of the population of
every new mining camp—and focused their hard eyes on Lex.

The man chuckled easily. “You’re a stranger in camp and don’t
appreciate what it means to brush up against Jule Quintell. I hope
we understand each other—that we’ll spare each other future
embarrassment,” he said, with biting emphasis.

Dismissing his followers with a wave of his hand, he turned on his
heel and strode away. Lex, furious with chagrin, looked after him
for some seconds, then he entered the little dry-goods store.

“Oh, deary!” burst out Mrs. Liggs, hurrying up to him. She closed
and locked the front door, and taking his hand in her own trembling
one, started leading him toward the rear of the place. “I nearly
fainted with fright, Lex. Do you know who he was? Jule Quintell,
honey, the awfulest man. He’s the worst crook, controls the camp,
and is that powerful he just laughs at law and order. Men are killed
off like flies, and they say Jule Quintell is back of every murder.
Oh, it’s terrible, Lex! Nobody is safe, and he’s got spies all
around, and they jump mining claims, and if the owner shows fight,
they shoot him like a dog. I was just scared to death.”

She made him comfortable in the cozy living room and chattered on,
recounting the lawless deeds of “Boss” Quintell and his gangster
following.

“One of these days he’ll get what’s coming to him, Mother Liggs.
He’ll pick on the wrong man at the right time,” said Lex slowly.

A little later, they had dismissed the subject and their talk
drifted to the search being made on the Huntington ranch.

“Developments have brought about a rather unusual situation,” he
told her, “and I have come to you, hoping you might be able to clear
it up. In the first place, I want to ask you a question, because I
know you are an intimate friend of the Huntingtons. I saw your
picture occupying a prominent place out there. Has Miss Huntington a
sweetheart? Have you ever known her to be interested in any man?”

Mrs. Liggs thought a moment, then shook her head decidedly. “No, and
what’s more, she never speaks of men in that way, Lex. She’s
different from any girl I’ve ever met, for her age—she’s eighteen.
She’s studious and likes to read novels and—well, dream. She sits
and spins yarns to me every time we visit one another. Yarns she’s
made up, mind you, and they’re as clever as any you ever read. But
I’m positive she never kept company with a man in her life. I’d know
if she did, Lex.”

He looked across the room, puffing his cigarette in silence.

“The reason I ask, Mother Liggs, is that our investigations lead us
to believe that she helped Billy Gee, provided him with food, a bed
and——”

“She did!” burst out the little old lady, in sudden excitement.

“Yes, and from all appearances, hid him in her room. I want to be
sure of their relations to each other, for it is quite probable that
if he knew her he would tell her about the stolen money and either
confide in her where he had hidden it or have her conceal it for
him.” He followed by giving Mrs. Liggs a detailed account of the
search and what it had revealed.

She listened intently, eagerly, drinking in every word, a strange,
exultant light that he did not note gleaming far back in the depths
of her faded blue eyes, her cheeks tinged with a faint rosiness that
heightened the charm of her kindly countenance.

“And if you don’t find this money, Lex, I hope you don’t intend to
arrest Dot!” she cried suddenly. “Why, that would be a terrible
outrage—horrible. That girl is a dear, sweet, innocent child who
wouldn’t do wrong for anything. Why, that’s just like her to help
him—wounded and bleeding and all that!”

He smiled at her vehement defense of the girl. “I don’t think we
will have occasion to go that far in the matter, Mother Liggs,” he
said reassuringly. “As I was driving in from the ranch it struck me
that, confronted with what evidence we have and more that we’ll get,
showing that Miss Huntington presumably aided him, Billy Gee will
confess—make a clean breast of everything, rather than have her
incriminated. Any man would, out of a sense of gratitude, if for no
other reason.” He paused and added slowly: “Personally, from
everything you’ve told me about her I don’t believe a young woman of
Miss Huntington’s standing would stoop to such a thing as keeping
stolen money—supposing, of course, that Billy Gee turned it over to
her. Isn’t that so?”

Mrs. Liggs did not reply. She studied him curiously for a few
seconds, then she said gravely:

“You haven’t seen the bulletin board this afternoon, have you? Well,
Billy Gee escaped from Sheriff Warburton and—and got away, Lex. If
you’ll stay to supper I’ll tell you all about it. And I’ve got—what
do you think, deary? Pumpkin pie! Only it’s made out of canned
pumpkin.” Laughing, she took both his hands in hers and drew him
into the kitchen.


A hundred miles southwest of Geerusalem, where the Mohave Desert
grudgingly recedes and the great arable belt, rich in orange and
lemon groves, orchard and vineyard, follows the coast line
unswervingly, north and south, a dozen posses were scouring the
country for one man.

Four hours before, Billy Gee had turned on Sheriff Warburton in the
lavatory of the smoking car and struck him down with the heavy
“bottle-cuffs” that shackled his hands. He had taken the key from
the unconscious official’s pocket, unlocked the manacles, slipped
them on Warburton, and gagged him so that he could not cry out. Then
he had leaped through the lavatory window, while the train was
straining on an upgrade, out of the desert.

At the next station, a brakeman had discovered the sheriff lying
helpless on the floor. The train was stopped, the wires tapped, and
the alarm broadcasted around for hundreds of miles.

Sheriff Warburton, overwhelmed with humiliation, raging impotently,
mustered a posse and began combing the neighborhood where his
prisoner had broken for freedom. Other posses were organized. A
dragnet, twenty-five miles in diameter, started closing in. Hour
after fruitless hour passed. On the evening of the same day that he
had left Geerusalem with the notorious bandit in custody, Sheriff
Warburton, baffled, discomfited, offered one thousand dollars for
the man’s capture, dead or alive.

At ten o’clock that night, when it seemed certain that Billy Gee had
dropped from sight, Warburton wrapped up his gold-filled star of
authority, together with his credentials and a letter, resigning as
sheriff of San Buenaventura County. These he mailed to the chairman
of the board of supervisors, but he did not abandon his hunt for
Billy Gee. On the contrary, he prosecuted that hunt with a
persistence bordering on frenzy, spending days and nights in the
saddle, sleeping and eating only when exhaustion threatened to put
him out of the running, and he registered a violent oath against the
outlaw, if they ever should meet again.

Two weeks later the newspapers carried a story about the finding of
a dead man in a lonely desert cañon, some distance from the little
town of Burbank. Authorities differed as to the length of time the
man had been dead. Identification proving quite impossible, it was,
nevertheless, decided that the remains were those of Billy Gee.
Ex-Sheriff Warburton alone would not believe it. He continued his
relentless, indefatigable search.


CHAPTER X—A DISCLOSURE

Dot Huntington found San Francisco to exceed her wildest imaginings
of what a great city really was. Born of the desert and having been
an intimate part of that desert all her life and, until the
establishment of Geerusalem, knowing nothing of those centers where
men forgathered and schemed and battled and died in a fury of
commercial competition, she had always pictured a metropolis as
similar to an ant hill for life and activity; but she had never
thought it so spectacular, so dynamic in potentialities, so gigantic
a thing as that architectural pile which greeted her eyes on that
memorable morning when she and her father crossed the seven miles of
green bay from Oakland, toward the picturesque horizon of buildings
rising step on step, miles long and wide, tier on tier, up the steep
slopes of hills that hid their crests in a low-lying, fleecy bank of
fog.

And Market Street, Mississippian in its aspect, flowing full with
its surging, irresistible stream of pedestrians and traffic,
appalled her. The chaotic blockade of street cars at the Ferry
terminal, the deafening thunder and shriekings of the busy
Embarcadero, the mad confusion of it all, bewildered her—and
bewildered Lemuel still more.

It was during the period when the Golden West Hotel was to the
country people of California what the Congress, in Chicago, is to
the political world of the nation—the one and only caravansary.
Accordingly, Lemuel set his blind course for the Golden West Hotel.
He did this after making a number of inquiries on how to reach his
destination, regarding with considerable suspicion each one of his
informants, for he had heard about the suaveness of confidence and
bunko men and their artful way of misdirecting their victims to dens
of iniquity, abounding in trapdoors and subterranean dungeons and
murderous gangsters, and he felt that he was just a trifle too smart
to fall a prey to the sly brotherhood.

“Them slick fellers’s got to git up purty early in the mornin’ to
beat yore dad, Dot,” he grinned proudly, as they started off in a
taxi. “I ain’t up on city ways, but I’m kinder foxy myself. That’s
what comes of knockin’ around with Lennox, the minin’ engineer, an’
the rest of them Geerusalem sports, like I’ve done.”

But with all Lemuel’s belief in his own sagacity, when it was a
matter of pitting his wits against the other fellow’s, he failed to
notice that, ever since their arrival at the Ferry terminal, he and
Dot had been the object of intense secret interest on the part of a
man who, once his sharp eyes rested on them as they came in sight
with the rest of the passengers, trailed them about until they
entered the taxi.

He was a broad-shouldered, powerful individual, perhaps in the late
thirties, with a red, coarse face and expressionless blue eyes. His
clothes were cut along flashy lines, his shoes of glittering patent
leather, his hat worn jauntily. But his very appearance,
particularly when he walked, somehow impressed one that he was more
at home in the hills than in the city. As Dot and her father began
their slow progress up Market Street the stranger sprang into
another taxi and instructed the driver to follow the first.

Arriving at the hotel, Lemuel and his daughter registered and were
shown to a cheerful little suite overlooking the street. They sat
down in the parlor and stared at each other.

“My!” exclaimed Dot breathlessly. “Isn’t this just—just wonderful?”

“Geerusalem ain’t got nuthin’ on this burg, has it? Sounds like ol’
hell broke loose—an’ I’m not cussin’ when I say that, Dot,” chuckled
Lemuel.

Her eyes kindled, and she rose from her chair and went over and
threw her arms around his neck. “It’s such a glorious adventure. I—I
only wish poor mother was with us. Don’t you, daddy?”

He didn’t answer for some seconds, then he said in a strained voice:
“That’s the one thing that spoils it all for us, honey—her not bein’
here. All her life, she looked for’ard to this hour, when me an’
her’d bring you to Frisco to go to school. Thank God, the hour’s
come—anyway!”

During the next two days they devoted themselves almost entirely to
getting acquainted with the vicinity of the hotel. Then they began
taking short tours of investigation, growing bolder and bolder until
they were finally promenading the miles of streets which form the
downtown business section, even venturing a trip to the Cliff House
where they spent hours gazing in speechless amazement across the
Pacific—the first ocean they had ever seen.

Having become thus partially inured to metropolitan conditions, they
found time to think of other matters. Naturally enough, it was
Lemuel’s desire to get his daughter an outfit; the best that money
could buy would be none too good, he told himself. That daughter,
like any woman, was not averse to being prettily clothed, so they
started window shopping, staring at the gorgeous displays along
lower Grant Avenue, trying to decide on what would be not alone
stylish, but attractive and worth the money as well.

But by the end of the fourth day it became quite apparent to them
both that choosing a young lady’s first wardrobe destined to give
her the required distinction demanded by so select an institution as
Longwell’s Seminary was clearly not a job for the uninitiated. They
repaired to their little parlor to study over the problem. Lemuel
was smoking his after-dinner cigar and frowning at his new tight
shoes.

“I have it, daddy!” burst out Dot suddenly, breaking a long silence.
“Telegraph to Mrs. Liggs and ask her to come. You can pay her fare
and expenses. You remember, she used to live in San José and she
knows all about what is proper and tasty in dress. She can get
somebody to take care of the store for a few days. I’m sure she’ll
come.”

But Lemuel shook his head severely. “We don’t want Mrs. Liggs
pickin’ out yore things, Dot, an’ that settles it,” he said shortly.

“Why not? She’s in the dry-goods business and knows all about
clothes.”

“She’s old-fashioned, that’s why, an’ she wouldn’t talk to me when I
seen her——”

“She is not old-fashioned, daddy, and you know it,” cried Dot
spiritedly. “Didn’t she make me that pretty pink dress last summer,
and everybody admired it? You said yourself it was nicer than
anything you’d seen on me. I know that if we try to buy a wardrobe
ourselves, they’ll—— Well, we’ll have to take what they tell us is
the latest style, because we don’t know any better. Can’t you see
that you’ll save money and everything by having Mrs. Liggs come?
Please send for her, daddy!”

They discussed the matter for upward of an hour, and because her
father’s objections were weak and unconvincing, Dot argued all the
more strenuously in an effort to have her way. Nor was Lemuel so
greatly opposed to her plan as he pretended to be. He firmly
believed that Mrs. Liggs was the very person who could discriminate
between what was modish and what was not in a young lady’s apparel,
and that, furthermore, she would not hesitate to close up her store
for a week and board the first train north if she knew that Dot
required her services in a matter of such moment.

What he was endeavoring to do was make up his mind whether he should
tell his daughter how he had captured Billy Gee, confess his
perfidy, and send for Mrs. Liggs, or object flatly to her and,
thereby, throw himself on the tender mercies of some clerk trained
in the subtle art of selling goods; for he realized only too well,
that were their little old friend to come, she would lose no time in
telling Dot about the sensational capture of the bandit, and how he,
Lemuel, had been lionized by the population of Geerusalem. Under
other circumstances he would have rather welcomed this, but to have
his daughter learn how treacherously he had acted, was something he
dreaded. He felt that she would not be able to understand his object
back of the act. Again, Mrs. Liggs’ unaccountable treatment of him
that morning when he rode into Geerusalem rankled considerably. Of
course, he told himself, there was always the possibility that she
had not recognized him, for her eyes were not as keen now as he had
once known them to be.

So, after finding himself being slowly convinced by Dot almost
against his will that they were absolutely dependent on Mrs. Liggs
to solve the wardrobe problem for them, he finally yielded to his
half-formed notion to tell his daughter everything—except the fact
that Billy Gee had threatened his life; for he would not awaken
unnecessary fears in her lest she might refuse to attend school.

He cleared his throat presently and said: “I’m goin’ to tell you
somepn, Dot—because I’d ruther you heard it from me than an
outsider—an’ I want you to forgive me for carin’ more for yore
future than for yore opinion of yore old dad.” He paused and glanced
anxiously at her. “I ketched Billy Gee as he was leavin’ the barn
that night, an’—an’ I c’llected the ten thousand dollars reeward.”

She had been sitting on the arm of his chair, smoothing his thin,
gray hair, idly. Now she started suddenly, and a hard gasp escaped
her. Rising from her seat, she came around in front of him and stood
looking sharply down into his face.

“You turned him over—over to Sheriff Warburton?” she asked hoarsely.

“I did, Dot—to git the money to give you an edjucation. I had to lie
to you, much as it hurt. But—but he got away. He jumped off the
train an’ they ain’t bin able to find hide or hair of him,” he
added, grinning expectantly at her.

“He got away! He got away—again—from Sheriff Warburton!”

“Yeh. An’ plumb disappeared. I bin watchin’ the papers. Poor Bob was
so bruck up over losin’ him, he quit the sheriff job.”

She stared intently at him a moment, then threw back her head and
laughed aloud—a silvery, daring laugh.

“I’m glad! Oh, I’m so glad!” she cried, a catch in her throat.

Lemuel was gazing narrowly at her, missing nothing; and he noticed
the warm flush come and go in her cheeks. He had never seen such a
brilliant light in her eyes before. He marveled vaguely.

“Well, I ain’t glad, that’s sure,” he said at last, with a hollow
chuckle, but the significance of his words was lost on her.

“Tell me all about it, daddy. And you got all that money for—for
capturing him? And he’s free? I’ll forgive you, then.”

Whereupon, he began an apologetic confession, relating how he had
suspected that she knew the hiding place of the bandit, how he had
spied on her, followed her from the house and seen her mount the
steps into the hayloft, on that memorable night; how he had
surprised Billy Gee and delivered him over to Warburton; how he had
returned home by way of the field and climbed into bed.

Dot listened in silence, her eyes averted, an odd sympathy in her
face; but she fairly gloated over the paper which Lemuel had
carefully preserved, giving the stirring particulars of the outlaw’s
subsequent escape.

“You’ll notice it says that the twenty thousand dollars he stole
from the paymaster is missin’,” said Lemuel pointedly. Her obvious
interest in Billy Gee disturbed him. “Ain’t it funny how it’s got
lost? What d’ye reckon could ’a’ happened to it, eh, Dot?”

She glanced up from her reading and found him studying her
strangely. She thought there was deep suspicion in his look. Or was
it craftiness, greed?

The recollection of that wild outburst of his in the kitchen, back
home, flashed into her mind. Much as she despised herself for the
feeling of distrust that kindled in her breast, she decided she
couldn’t be sure of him, that he was not to be relied on. Regardless
of the fact that he now had money, might he still not be
tempted—particularly since no one had the remotest inkling of the
whereabouts of the bandit’s loot—to keep it, if she confided in him
that Billy Gee had left it for her and that she was only waiting an
opportunity to return it to its rightful owners? It was a frightful
thought, she knew—a base, horrible thought for a daughter to
entertain toward a father so self-sacrificing and loving as he
was—but try as she would she could not rid herself of it.

“It is funny, isn’t it? Don’t you suppose, though, that they’ll make
a search for it?” she asked, her innocence well assumed. There was a
curious interest back of the last question, but he failed to notice
it, watching as he was for some sign of nervousness or apprehension
in her face.

“They already started. A young feller named Sangerly—his old man’s
manager of the road—he’s bin on the job sence the day we left. He’s
got a coupla high-class deetectives along. ’Cordin’ to what he was
tellin’ me he aims to make it poorty hot for somebody.” He said this
significantly.

She laughed. “You don’t mean that he suspects who has the money?
That’s——”

“He’s got it figgered out that Billy Gee had it with him when he
come to our place—an’ he’s dead right, let me tell you. When I
deelivered that—the cuss to Bob Warburton that mornin’, he didn’t
have no more’n five dollars on him. I know, ’cos I seen Bob search
him. Sangerly says he cached the twenty thousand on the ranch.” He
paused and added in low, confidential tones: “Say, Dot, you don’t
happen to know about it, do you? You seen his saddlebags, didn’t
you?”

“Yes,” she replied evenly. “He had his saddlebags with him, and when
I asked him what they contained, he said simply that he always
carried his mother’s picture and some keepsakes along with him. He
may have left them in the barn—forgotten them. I really couldn’t
say. Did you look?”

“No, goldarn it! I wisht now I’d hunted around for ’em. I reckon
Sangerly’ll find them. But, anyhow I’m glad you ain’t goin’ to git
mixed up in this mess, hon. It’d be turrible! The paper’d print yore
name, an’ mebby yore pitcher’d git in, an’—jest think what a
disgrace it’d be! Like as not, you’d git chucked out o’ school.
Folks’d talk awful, you bein’ c’nnected up with a train robber. An’
no matter what you’d say wouldn’t do no good. People’d turn up their
nose an’ say, ‘She’s no better’n he is.’” He glanced at his watch
and got to his feet. “All right, we’ll send for Agatha. What’ll we
tell her?”

Between them they worded the telegram, Dot writing it; and presently
he left the room with it, bound for the hotel office.

Once alone, the girl began again to ponder on what she should do
with the fortune she had wrapped in her mother’s old silk shawl.
Ever since their arrival in San Francisco, her interest in other
things had, for the time being, surmounted the responsibility and
concern she felt as the unwilling custodian of this large sum of
stolen money. Her father’s words now recalled the question to her in
a most vivid way.

It had all seemed so easy on the train—merely the inconvenience of
going to the police station, sheriff’s office, or postmaster,
turning the loot over to one of the three, with the information that
it represented what Billy Gee had stolen from the paymaster of the
Mohave & Southwestern Railroad, and that she wished it returned to
the company.

Here and now, however, amidst all this great city’s mad rush and
confusion, she shrank from taking this step. After due reflection,
it struck her that in all probability she would be closely
questioned, and the fearful notion grew on her that there was more
than a likelihood that she would be arrested as an accomplice; she
had heard of just such things having been done. And, even as her
father had said, there was the notoriety she was of a certainty to
receive in the newspapers. Yes, everybody would believe she was a
friend of this man whose name stood for lawlessness. They might
believe she was—— She shivered at the thought. What, then, must she
do to save the romantic situation for herself?

Racking her brains, she sat down and finally hit on another
solution. She would wait until Mrs. Liggs arrived. She would confide
in this dear little old lady, who had been like a mother to her,
tell her everything, and ask her advice. Mrs. Liggs would understand
and help her.

Shortly afterward, Lemuel returned with the proposal that they
attend a theater, and finish the night with a sight-seeing trip
through Chinatown.

“I bin hearin’ them Geerusalem sports braggin’ around about some
new-fangled game called chop sueys, that the chinks play, an’ I’m
goin’ to take a whirl at it ’fore I go back, even if I lose,” he
said, as he entered his room.

They were in the midst of their dressing, when the hall doorbell
rang. Lemuel answered it and fell back with a gasp of amazement when
he recognized the smiling face of his visitor.

“Dick Lennox! Why, you ol’ son of a gun! What’re you doin’? When, in
heck, did you git in?” he exploded, grasping the other by the hand
and drawing him into the room.

“This afternoon. Awfully glad to see you, Lem. I’ve been on your
trail ever since you left.”

Lemuel eyed him sharply. “How’s that? Anythin’ gone wrong?”

“Not a thing in the world that I know. Just a matter of urgent
business,” said Lennox.

He removed his nobby overcoat as he spoke, and arranged his tie with
fastidious care, smiling genially at the other the while.

He was a tall, wiry chap of twenty-eight, the stamp of college days
still on him, rather prepossessing of features, with shrewd blue
eyes, and blond hair slicked back. Lemuel noticed that he had
changed his corduroys and half-boots of Geerusalem vogue for a
snappy gray suit.

“Say, Lem, I’m about the luckiest cuss you ever heard of,” he cried,
throwing himself in a chair and lighting a cigarette. “I combed the
camp, as the detectives say, but couldn’t get a line where you’d
gone. Then I butted into the guy that drove you to Mirage. He
thought you’d come to Frisco—overheard you talking, I guess. But
Frisco is some bigger than Geerusalem, and I was euchred. I was just
figuring I’d have to give up and wait till you returned, when I just
happened to remember you once mentioned the Golden West Hotel as the
place you’d stop at if you ever hit the city. I took a chance, and
here you are. Can you beat it?”

“I’d call it clever work, myself,” laughed Lemuel.

“Clever? Why, you old rascal, nothing is clever alongside of what
you did the other night—bringing in Billy Gee, single-handed!
Honest, I never thought it was in you, Lem. The camp is still
excited over it.”

Lemuel crossed his legs with dignity and hooked his thumbs in his
armpits.

“I don’t guess there was as much to it as they think,” he said,
blowing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “Of course, a man was
akcherly takin’ his life in his hands every minute, so to speak, but
you got to c’nsider I growed up fightin’ just sech hard-boiled eggs.
It’s all in knowin’ how to handle ’em.”

“Oh, certainly! Experience is a great teacher,” conceded Lennox
seriously and coughed into his handkerchief to hide a grin.

Dot, attired for the street, joined them at this juncture, and
Lemuel presented Lennox.

“You remember me tellin’ you about Dick Lennox, the minin’
engineer—the chap who introdooced me to Mr. Sangerly? This is him,
Dot. He come all the way from Geerusalem to see—— You said somepn
about business, Dick. What was it?”

“I believe that Miss Huntington is going out for the evening,” said
Lennox, with a glance at Dot. “My errand can wait until to-morrow.”

“Wait—nuthin’, son—not after you come all the way from Soapweed
Plains! We got time galore. Come on, what’s on yore mind?”

Lennox brought up a chair for the girl, seated himself and said
briskly: “What do you hold your ranch at, Mr. Huntington?”

The other stared. “You mean, what’ll I sell fur?”

“Precisely—just as it stands.”

“Why—why, I don’t know as I ever figgered on a price, Dick. I’ve
always looked on it as home, an’ a man gene’lly don’t——”

“I appreciate the way you feel—a place to hang your hat and go to
when you can’t go anywhere else,” broke in Lennox genially. “But if
you were offered a—well, a handsome price. You’ll agree with me that
three hundred acres of it is worthless desert, while most of the
remaining twenty is little better than pasture.”

“Just what do you c’nsider a handsome price?” asked Lemuel
skeptically.

His visitor thoughtfully flicked the ash off his cigarette, into a
tray.

“Say, seventy-five hundred dollars.”

“Seventy-five hundred!” burst out Lemuel. He opened his mouth to
laugh but, observing the seriousness in the other’s face, the
keenness with which the blue eyes were studying him, closed it again
and rubbed his chin reflectively.

“You’ll admit that’s about double its value,” went on Lennox, in
matter-of-fact tones. “To be perfectly frank, I have made inquiries,
and find that you just might turn it for fifteen dollars an
acre—providing you found the sort of person who would put up with
the discomforts of the desert, some one looking for solitude and
plenty of sun. So far as a man making a living there, why——”

“D’ye mean cash down? I don’t go much on this proposition of
payments,” broke in the rancher.

“Cash—certainly. Furthermore, I’ve been authorized to give you a
substantial sum to bind the bargain, our only stipulation being that
the transfer be made as soon as possible.”

A short silence fell.

“May I inquire, Mr. Lennox, the reason for this flattering offer?”
said Dot, speaking for the first time. “Perhaps I should not ask the
question but I can’t help being curious——”

“You’re quite entitled to know, and I welcome the opportunity to
explain, Miss Huntington,” the man replied affably. “You see,
several of us have organized what we call the Geerusalem Amusement
Company. Among a number of other prospective enterprises, we intend
to establish a resort—a place of recreation a few miles out of camp,
where people can come and enjoy themselves. We have had some choice
places in view as a likely site—the Las Animas Ranch and the Cañon
Spring Ranch, for instance—but we decided that your father’s was the
logical one, since it was the nearest from town and correspondingly
more available to the public.”

“That’s a poorty slick idea,” said Lemuel, with an approving nod at
Dot. “The ranch sure is handy, an’—— Funny I hadn’t thought of that
before.”

“This resort, Mr. Lennox, what would it be like? you certainly can’t
mean a picnic ground or a place for outings,” probed Dot, unable to
visualize anything of a particularly attractive nature about her
desert home.

Lennox shook his head. “I’m afraid you didn’t quite catch my
meaning. For one thing, we expect to erect a bathhouse. By sinking
wells in the bed of the Mohave River, which passes through the
property, we feel satisfied we will strike a large subterranean flow
of water. We might even put in a concrete pool, if the amount of
water warrants it. Anyhow, bathing facilities would be our big
drawing card. Added to it, of course, would be a saloon, dance hall,
gambling, doubtless a hotel, should business demand it. In a word,
we are looking to construct a modern resort in the middle of the
desert. It’ll cost a barrel of money, but we believe the venture a
good one.”

Lemuel, in high spirits over the prospects of disposing of his land
for a price that, even as Lennox had stated, was double its market
value, rubbed his hands with ill-concealed gratification.

“Dick, as the feller says, nuthin’ ventured’ll git you nuthin’.
Bein’ that you’ve bin out in the open with me—laid yore hand on the
table, so to speak—I’ll jest call you. You give me seventy-five
hundred fur them two quarter sections, an’ they’re yourn——”

“Just one moment, father!” interrupted Dot.

During Lennox’s explanation of what the contemplated resort was to
be, she had sat with her eyes fixed on the carpet at her feet,
listening in silence. Now she rose and stood before the two men, her
face set and just a trifle pale.

“You’re not going to sell the place, father,” she continued, her
voice low but firm. “You’re not going to let them turn that clean
spot into a filthy hangout for the class of men and women who’ll
patronize it—where they’ll stagger around drunk and curse and gamble
and murder one another.”

Lemuel’s brows knit with impatience. “But can’t you see, hon, this
here’s big money. Dick knows it an’ he knows _I_ know it. We’ll
never git another chanct like it ag’in. An’ it’ll make us
independent, an’ we won’t ever have to go back there ’cept we want
to.”

“I really wouldn’t let my scruples stand in the way of this deal,
Miss Huntington,” advised Lennox suavely. “While what you say may be
perfectly true, in a sense, at the same time you have too much to
gain to allow mere sentiment to swerve you from what is clearly a
duty you owe to yourselves—disposing of the ranch for what is
actually a ridiculously high price.”

“Mere sentiment!” she echoed, her eyes flashing with an odd light.
“Of course, Mr. Lennox, you don’t understand. You don’t know the
reason I’m objecting. With you, it’s a cold business proposition.”
She turned to Lemuel, watching her now with obvious ill-humor.
“Father, would you always like to think that the drunkards and
outcasts of Geerusalem were merrymaking on the land where poor
mother worked and hoped and died? That they were cursing and dancing
and carousing within hearing of her grave? That their drunken feet
were stumbling over it, desecrating it, day and night, night and
day? Would you like to think that, for—for seventy-five hundred
dollars——” Her voice broke and she stood gazing at him beseechingly
through her tears.

For one instant, Lemuel stared aghast at her, then sudden pain
started in his eyes, twitched down his face to his lips, and set
them quivering. He swallowed hard, looked guiltily at one callous
hand, and bowed his head.

“My God, Dick, she’s right!” he said hoarsely. “I’d—I’d plumb
forgot. I’m—I’m sorry, but I reckon nobody’s got enough money to buy
that ranch—not fur a reesort, leastways. I sure—I sure forgot. Dot,
hon, you know I wouldn’t do sech an awful thing, don’t you?”

Some minutes later, Lennox walked out of the hotel and down the
street. At the corner, a man joined him—the same mysterious
individual who had followed Dot and her father from the Ferry
terminal on the morning they arrived in the city.

“I expect he fell heavy, eh?” laughed the fellow, falling into step
beside the other.

“No. He wouldn’t part with the place, Rankin,” said Lennox quietly.

“He wouldn’t! Not for seventy-five hundred! What in hell does the
old bum want for nothing? What was his reason?”

“Just didn’t care to sell, that was all.”

Rankin gave a nasty chuckle. “Wait till Jule hears about it. He’ll
make that old buzzard sweat blood, let me tell you! He’ll be glad to
sell—for nothing. Why, say, for all that coin, he ought to have
throwed in the skirt for good measure. Maybe, Jule could use her—as
his stenographer.”

Lennox stopped suddenly and confronted the other.

“What was that, Rankin?” he asked, peering hard at him.

“I said the Huntington kid might have to go to work for Jule as a
stenographer, before he’s through with her father,” was the surly
response.

“Miss Huntington does not enter into this thing. Do you understand
that?” said Lennox harshly.

They continued in silence down the street and came to a halt before
the Western Union telegraph office.

“I’m taking the morning train back to Geerusalem,” announced Rankin.
“Before I go, I want to say one thing, and that is—I didn’t know you
were interested in Dot Huntington or I wouldn’t have made the crack
I did.” He paused and added meaningly: “I don’t think Jule did
either, or he certainly wouldn’t have sent you to put through this
deal. It’ll be up to you to convince him why it fell through when it
shouldn’t have. You get me, don’t you?” With a curt nod, he turned
on his heel and walked away.

Lennox looked after him for a moment, then he entered the telegraph
office. As he prepared to send a wire to Jule Quintell he muttered
to himself: “I don’t blame them for refusing. She’s a wonderful
little girl.”


CHAPTER XI—OUTWITTED

On the day following Billy Gee’s spectacular escape from Sheriff
Warburton, Coates and Tyler, the Mohave & Southwestern Railroad
detectives, temporarily abandoned their search for the suspected
cache on the Huntington ranch, and motored away over the fifty-odd
miles to the station of Mirage, backtracking the bandit’s course to
the distant grading camp where he had robbed the paymaster’s car.

At Lex Sangerly’s request, the Geerusalem constable—an official
regarded more as an ornament than as a legal necessity in the
township—detailed a number of his deputies to guard the ranch
against the possibility of Billy Gee’s return; for Sangerly was more
convinced now than ever that the disappearance of the twenty
thousand dollars centered around the Huntington place. He reasoned,
therefore, that the bandit, if alive, would come back after it.

The morning after Lemuel sent the telegram to Mrs. Liggs asking her
to join him and Dot in San Francisco, for the purpose of selecting
the girl’s wardrobe, the little dry-goods storekeeper had informed
Lex, when he voiced his surprise at her trunks and suit cases being
loaded on a freight wagon, that she was leaving for the metropolis
to be gone an indefinite period. A few days later, however, he
learned that Mrs. Liggs had sold out her business. He wondered
vaguely, regretfully, over this. It seemed to him that she at least
might have told him of her plans. He couldn’t understand it. It was
not like her—certainly, not like the Mrs. Liggs he had known in the
past, the wistful little woman whom he had found again and still
loved, second only to his dead mother.

Meanwhile, Coates and Tyler back from their painstaking, arduous
investigation of the route Billy Gee had taken from the grading camp
into Soapweed Plains, reported to Sangerly that, even as Warburton
had stated, there was not the remotest likelihood that the outlaw
had hidden his stealings on the way. They had found that he had not
dismounted once throughout his long heartbreaking ride.

This discovery simply served to strengthen all the more the theory
that the ranch was the site of the missing loot, and again these two
sleuths set diligently to work to find it, making an exhaustive hunt
of the premises, exploring the barn from mudsill to rafter, prying
into every nook and corner of the house, wielding the pick and
shovel in the garden, the corrals, the field, questing with the
ardor of bloodhounds each spot or locality where a man would be
tempted to conceal a stolen fortune.

After a week of this, they talked the matter over between themselves
and they agreed that by all the signs Lemuel Huntington knew more
about the disappearance of the money than any other living man—not
even excepting Billy Gee. They were absolutely convinced that, while
his daughter might have acted solely from humanitarian reasons in
giving aid to the wounded outlaw, her father unquestionably had not
only collected the reward for capturing the fellow but had succeeded
in getting possession of the contents of the saddlebags as well.

It was obvious, they argued, that since Huntington had taken Billy
Gee into custody so easily—desperadoes, their experience told him,
did not submit without a struggle—he had doubtless been shrewd
enough to study the bandit’s movements for some time prior to
getting the drop on him. Such being apparently the case, it followed
then that Dot’s father had seen the outlaw cache his stealings; and
after delivering his prisoner to Warburton, he had returned home and
robbed the cache, feeling himself secure in the belief that Billy
Gee would, in all probability, go to jail without divulging the
hiding place of a treasure whose value was such as to assure him of
a comfortable stake against the day of his release, providing, of
course, it was never found. Moreover, Coates and Tyler began to
discern where Huntington’s hurried trip to San Francisco was the
result of sudden panic, brought on by the haunting thought that in
some way suspicion might fasten on him and that he might be made the
object of a rigid examination which, he felt, he could not undergo.
Coupled with this notion, was their prevailing belief that
Huntington had taken the twenty thousand dollars away with him.

However, Coates and Tyler said nothing of all this to Sangerly. They
were of the opinion that Lex was altogether too lenient in his
judgment of Lemuel Huntington; that he was letting Huntington’s
seeming hospitality stand in the way of those suspicions which, they
were positive, he must have entertained against the rancher.
Secretly, they began to regard their superior with a sort of pitying
scorn for his obvious gullibility. Their criminal-hunting instincts,
too, started rebelling at being held in leash, at being hindered in
their functioning by the dictations of a man whose faith in human
nature was, to all intents and purposes, destined to bring about the
ultimate failure of the case—immunity for Huntington, the loss of
the money.

Brooding thus, becoming more and more disgusted with their fruitless
search of the ranch, these two conscientious investigators resolved
to take matters in their own hands, at the risk of incurring
Sangerly’s displeasure and receiving a reprimand into the bargain.
They decided that, unknown to him, they would arrest Lemuel on his
return, charge him with having made away with the twenty thousand
dollars, threaten him with disgrace—anything that would terrorize
him, wring a confession from him.

But inquiry of the man who was caring for the ranch during the
absence of the Huntingtons brought the disturbing information that,
not only was he ignorant of the family’s whereabouts in San
Francisco, but he had not the slightest idea when Dot and her father
would return. Coates and Tyler, their plans balked at the outset,
went back to their half-hearted search, waiting grimly for the
arrival of their victim.

Meanwhile, Lex had likewise been giving considerable thought to the
mysterious disappearance of his company’s money. He also was
beginning to recognize the necessity of carefully questioning
Lemuel, as well as his daughter, on the entire Billy Gee episode.
While he did not believe they were accomplices of the bandit in any
sense of the word, or even knew him for that matter, he felt
convinced that it was quite possible that their stories would shed
some light on Billy’s movements which would facilitate the search
Coates and Tyler were making, resulting probably in immediately
locating the whereabouts of the outlaw’s cache, for, though he would
not admit it to himself, he saw where their quest was rapidly
reaching an end, that it had seemingly been for naught.

Ever since the departure of Dot and her father, Lex had made it his
business to ascertain the standing of the Huntingtons, in order to
fully satisfy his mind as to the type of persons they were. He had
done this quietly, so as not to arouse suspicion, and had found that
without exception the community regarded Lemuel as a sterling,
though simple, character, and held Dot in no less high esteem than
did Mrs. Liggs. About the only weakness that the father had, was an
inordinate worship of education and educated people, which found
reflection in a consuming passion to provide his daughter with those
advantages that would make her a woman of superior culture and
refinement, so the camp said. And this, to Lex’s mind, was an
unerring sign of probity in any man, a native genteelness that could
not go far wrong.

One morning, two weeks after the Huntingtons had left for San
Francisco, Lex motored from the ranch into Geerusalem. He had said
nothing to Coates and Tyler about what he now contemplated doing,
merely instructing them to await his return. Once in camp, however,
he had the constable send a wire to the San Francisco chief of
police requesting him to locate if possible the hotel at which
Lemuel and Dot were registered. Around six o’clock that afternoon a
reply was received, naming the Golden West.

Without loss of time, Lex sprang into his roadster and drove to the
railroad, where he caught the night train for the North. After due
reflection, he had decided to have a quiet talk with Huntington and
his daughter, one in which the detectives would have no part; for
somehow he rather resented their thinly veiled insinuations and
coarse remarks toward a man against whom they possessed not a
vestige of incriminating evidence. In fact, he was certain he could
get more from the Huntingtons through a friendly discussion, than
might be gained by the intimidating, browbeating methods employed by
inquisitors of the Coates and Tyler type.

Besides, manlike, he was just a little bit curious to meet this
girl, Dot, of whom he had heard such flattering reports, whose
picture he had gazed on so many times during his fortnight at the
ranch, who was so close to his dear little old friend, Mrs. Liggs.

But in one particular, his plans miscarried, for it so happened that
while he was en route to San Francisco, Lemuel—having sight-seen the
metropolis to his entire satisfaction, as well as gratified the
desire of his life by settling Dot in Longwell Seminary for her
first year—was on his way back to Geerusalem, with a headful of
progressive ideas calculated to make him in the next decade, through
the early purchase of a herd of stock cattle, the principal cowman
of southern California. Their trains passed each other in the night.

The following day when Lemuel reached home, he was confronted by
Coates and Tyler and learned to his bewilderment and dismay that he
was under arrest for no less a crime than knowingly appropriating to
himself twenty thousand dollars belonging to the Mohave &
Southwestern Railroad Company. They ordered him into the kitchen and
began grilling him—bombarding him with questions, disputing his
answers, tripping him up, now and again hurling their accusations at
him, cajoling him in one breath, threatening him in the next.

Hour after hour, they kept it up untiringly, mercilessly, and
because he could not give a convincing story of how he had known
that Billy Gee was hiding in the hayloft—fearing as he did to
mention even so much as his daughter’s name in conjunction with the
case—they decided to hold him on the John Doe warrant they had
procured from the local judge, pending further investigation.

At dark, Coates mounted one of Lemuel’s horses and rode into
Geerusalem and communicated by telephone with Sangerly, senior,
Western manager of the Mohave & Southwestern in Los Angeles. He gave
a brief account of the failure which had attended their search and
ended with the declaration that it was the professional opinion of
himself and Tyler that Lemuel Huntington was the thief. Stating
simply that Lex had gone to San Francisco, Coates informed Mr.
Sangerly that they desired to remove their prisoner to the county
jail for further questioning and asked for official sanction in the
matter.

This being granted, he rushed the usual legal formalities necessary
to take a prisoner out of the jurisdiction of the Geerusalem courts
and sped away for the ranch in a rented machine, his object being to
get Lemuel out of the district before Lex returned; for now there
was not the remotest doubt in the mind of those two man-hunters that
Dot’s father was the sensational catch of their careers.

It was a bright, starry night, warm and quiet, and it was nine
o’clock, when the driver brought the car to a halt before the
Huntington ranch. Coates sprang out and was presently pounding on
the front door.

“Who’s there? That you, Ray?” shouted Tyler from inside.

“Yes. Open up! Everything’s jake. We’re on our way.”

The next moment the door was thrown open and Coates entered, gazing
in amazement at his partner, grim of face, six-shooter in hand. Back
of him, in the hall, stood Lemuel, his sunburned, leathery cheeks
yellow with alarm, his eyes bulging wildly.

“See anybody outside?” asked Tyler.

“Only the driver of the machine. What’s eating you anyhow? You look
like you been shot at and missed.” He chuckled roughly.

“Yeh? Well, come on in the kitchen and I’ll show you something’ll
make your hair curl.” Turning the key in the lock, Tyler led the way
toward the rear of the house. On the oil-cloth covered table lay a
soiled old envelope containing a lead-pencil scribble. He picked it
up and handed it to Coates, who read:

  I jest cum to take my saddle an bags an pack off the 20,000 that
  you dicks aint bin able to find. After this better close the
  window so folks cant lissen. An dont show yore nose outside cos Im
  shootin tonite.

Coates stared at his colleague, the yellow lamplight showing his
face drawing into hard, cruel lines. A furious curse burst from him.
“Billy Gee!” he shouted.

“Yes, damn him!” growled Tyler. “Half an hour ago I heard a knock
out front. I thought it was you coming back. That’s what I found
shoved under the door.” He indicated the envelope. “While we were
quizzing the old duffer, like a coupla rummies, Billy was getting an
earful at the window. Kids us about it, you’ll notice.”

Coates’ withering eyes rested on the other. “He beats it with the
swag, you notice that, too, don’t you? And you’ve stuck inside here,
like a big walrus, and let him. What the hell kind of a free-lunch
detective——”

“Say, soft-pedal that stuff, pal!” flared Tyler menacingly. “I don’t
see you busting no records—except it’s slipping the bull. If you
think I’m tearing out after this wild and woolly yegg, so’s he can
pot-shot me first flop out of the box, you’re cuckoo. Maybe I
ought’ve taken the lamp and looked under the rosebushes for him,
eh?”

Coates made no reply. Raging silently he paced the floor. Some
seconds afterward he halted before Tyler.

“This is certainly some swell mess. That’s all I got to say. I
phoned the chief, got his O. K., talked my head off to get the
papers signed, and rented a machine for the trip. For what? We’ve
put in two weeks in this hole for nothing. The money’s gone. Get me?
Gone! We might as well sling onto our grips and report back to
headquarters for a damn fine panning. Hot dog!”

Tyler laughed. “Rave on! To hear you say it I’m the whole show,
ain’t I? I’m supposed to pull a fancy moving-picture stunt, while
you stand on the side lines rooting for me. Pretty soft! Sure, I get
you! You’re trying to slip out from under—make me the goat. Say, bo,
any time you think——”

“Aw, cut it out! Let’s get out after this wise bird, see if we can’t
pick up his tracks. I got the car outside. If we don’t get a line on
him, we’ll shoot to camp and phone the old man,” cut in Coates
surlily. He turned to Lemuel, standing near the stove, rubbing his
bony hands in hopeless apprehension. “Mr. Huntington, we’re letting
you go on probation. But don’t leave the country till we tell you,
d’you understand? Take care of our traps for a few days. If we don’t
come back we’ll send for them. Come on, Tyler, we’ll——”

He broke off abruptly, interrupted by the furious honking of the
horn of the machine waiting out on the road, the thunderous roar of
its open muffler.

With Tyler at his heels he dashed for the front door. Clearing the
porch in one bound they sped down the garden walk, gripping their
revolvers, straining their eyes toward the car, looming black
against the sky horizon of the plains.

“I’m cutting for the field. Watch your shots!” panted Coates in low
tones, swinging off on a tangent through the garden.

But he had barely cleared the walk when the automobile suddenly
leaped away; and simultaneously its headlights flashed on, boring
twin avenues of white flame through the darkness in the direction of
distant Mirage. Alongside the driver, the silhouette of a man was
now visible. He megaphoned back with his hands at the two
detectives:

“Thanks for the machine, fellers. Noo York service I call it. Give
my reegards to old Law an’ Order.”

Coates and Tyler emptied their six-shooters wildly at the car.
Cursing frantically, they sprang in pursuit, loading and firing
their weapons as they ran. But the machine, speeding on like the
wind, whirled out of range and went on and on, plunging and
careening over the uneven road, vanished into the vastness of the
desert night.

“That squares us. You had your fling at him,” said Tyler to Coates.


CHAPTER XII—REPUTATIONS AT STAKE

Dot Huntington, though fascinated with Longwell Seminary on the one
hand, scorned it on the other. As an institution of learning she
believed it quite perfect, all that could be desired; but she
resented its strict discipline, those rigid rules which deprived her
of certain privileges which she had, with parental consent, enjoyed
all her life, chiefly, the right to come and go unchaperoned
whenever she wished and to read any book that pleased her fancy.

However, a sudden overwhelming appetite for education seized her,
and this very readily reconciled her to the loss of her personal
liberty, for while she inherited none of her father’s passion for
culture, her ambition and pride were such as to impel her to set for
her goal those high honors for which the seminary was noted. So,
brought face to face with tomes of fact and instruction, she threw
herself whole-heartedly into the task of mastering them in order to
attain that grade of erudition which her age and matureness of mind
made necessary. In order to bring this last about, Lemuel had made
special arrangements that she take instructions from a private
teacher in order that she might go more rapidly forward.

Again, displeased as she was with the institution’s system of
discipline, she was deeply interested in its student body. She had
never known the companionship of girls of her age before, and here
there were scores of them, and not a few daughters of the most
prominent families of the West. Having a prepossessing personality
that attracted people to her, she made friends; and these vivacious
newfound companions, added to the fascination with which her studies
gripped her, contributed greatly in causing her to put aside that
one haunting worry that had periodically harrassed her ever since
she left Geerusalem, for she was still the unwilling custodian of
the white-elephant fortune in bills. Mrs. Liggs had not arrived, nor
had she answered Lemuel’s telegram for that matter. Dot could not
imagine what had happened to their little old friend, on whom she
depended to solve the problem for her.

Three days after Lemuel had wired Mrs. Liggs, asking her to come to
San Francisco, they had given up hope of hearing from her.
Considerably mystified, they had been finally driven into visiting
the manager of one of the big stores and confessing that Dot was
going to attend a select seminary and needed a complete wardrobe. As
a result, Dot was now the proud possessor of as dainty and chic a
collection of gowns, expensive lingerie, hats and shoes, as had been
displayed in Longwell’s in more than a decade.

However, Mrs. Liggs’ strange absence and silence remained a mystery;
and, as a consequence, the twenty thousand dollars remained wrapped
in the old silk shawl in Dot’s room, which she shared with the
daughter of a shipbuilder of Portland, Oregon. Yet, let it not be
assumed that Dot was for one moment unmindful of the ultimate
disposition of this money. On the contrary, she was determined that
it should eventually find its way back to its rightful owners. The
thing is, that her first nervousness had left her. Constant
reflection on a subject of fearful moment in due time robs that
subject of its alarms.

She now calmly reasoned that since Mrs. Liggs had failed her she
would simply abide the coming of that hour when she could get up
sufficient courage to write to the Mohave & Southwestern Railroad
Company, telling them she had Billy Gee’s loot and explaining the
entire situation in such a way as to protect herself from the
possibility of subsequent newspaper notoriety. This, she made up her
mind to do; and then suddenly, a day or two after, she remembered
with a thrill of joy, Bob Warburton, her father’s friend. Why had
she not thought of Warburton before? He was the very man who could
and would return this ill-gotten treasure to its owners and in all
probability even go so far as to withhold her name in the case.

It was late one afternoon when the happy thought struck her. She was
in her room and she immediately sat down and wrote out a telegram to
Warburton, asking him to come to San Francisco at once, as she had
something of the utmost importance to tell him.

Then she ran downstairs and stole away across the garden to a
secluded arbor in the far corner of the seminary grounds. On a small
ledge beneath one of the old rustic benches, among a mass of other
clandestine correspondence, she placed the message and the money for
the coachman—a sympathetic individual who, because of the handsome
tips he enjoyed from his precluded side line, was a stanch advocate
of drastic academic rules against letter writing.

Dot, having taken the first definite step to rid herself of the
responsibility which had weighed her down since the morning she had
opened her bureau drawer and discovered the prodigality of Billy
Gee’s gratitude, hurried back through the garden. As she reached a
point where she could command a view of the walk leading from the
street to the seminary’s front door, she came to an abrupt halt.
Slowly approaching along the walk came a familiar figure, that of a
little old woman, dressed in a neat, correct street dress. One
glance, and the girl gave a glad cry. It was Mrs. Liggs! Shrilling
her name, Dot raced toward her.

“Mrs. Liggs! Mrs. Liggs! Where have you been? We waited so long. We
didn’t know what—— You darling!” she cried. She caught the frail
form in her strong young arms and hugged and kissed her until the
pale-blue eyes glistened with joy.

Locked in each other’s arms they stood on the seminary’s steps for
some minutes talking in a fury of happy excitement. It developed
that Mrs. Liggs had come to the city a few days after she had
received Lemuel’s telegram. She had not been able to meet them as
she had intended because of a sudden change of plans, which had
required her presence in the southern part of the State prior to
journeying north. Inquiry at the Golden West Hotel on her arrival
elicited the information that Dot’s trunks had been checked out to
Longwell’s Seminary, but Mrs. Liggs had postponed her visit until
she got settled in a quiet place, away from the nerve-racking noise
of the city’s business district. She told the girl all this in a
hesitant, wistful voice, much as if she were relating something that
was not entirely to her liking.

Presently, Dot led the way inside and thence into one of the gloomy
parlors, grim in its austere furnishings, high ceiling and
scrupulous cleanliness. On one of the walls, in a plain black
mahogany frame, the stern visage of one of the Longwell sisters
glared icily down on them. Authorization to conduct the Longwell
Seminary as an educational institution was strikingly displayed in a
gold-bordered parchment, bearing the seal of the State of
California, and a hundred words of beautiful handwriting painfully
difficult to decipher under the most favorable conditions.

As they were about to seat themselves a maid attired in severe black
made her noiseless appearance at the door and, with a cautious
glance over her shoulder, motioned hurriedly to Dot.

“Something terrible has happened, Miss Huntington,” she whispered,
when the girl joined her in the hall. “Miss Jessie Longwell phoned
the trustees, and they’re holding a meeting in the office now,
about——” She broke off, her eyes seeking the floor.

“Go on, Mary! They’re holding a meeting, you say, and it’s over me,
isn’t it?” said Dot quietly.

The maid nodded. “They’re trying to decide whether to expel you or
not.”

“Expel me? Why—why, you surely must be mistaken. I can’t imagine——”

“It’s something that’s in the afternoon papers. I haven’t been able
to see it. I heard them talking about it. Miss Longwell’s taken all
of them and given strict orders for us not to allow any more in the
seminary until further notice from her.”

Bewilderment, then anxiety struggled in Dot’s face. Her thoughts
flashed to her father.

“Are you sure, Mary? Did you hear what it was over? Was anything
said?” she asked, trusting herself to speak finally.

“I only heard them mention your name, Miss Huntington, and—and
something about disgrace,” said the maid. “I tried to catch what
they accused you of, but Miss Longwell closed the door. I’m so
sorry—if there’s any trouble.”

Dot thanked her and went back to Mrs. Liggs. The old lady studied
her narrowly as she resumed her seat.

“It’s bad news, ain’t it, Dot? I can see it in your face, so don’t
story to me, deary. And it’s about your father and—and Billy Gee,
ain’t it?” She drew up her chair as she spoke, and took the girl’s
hand affectionately in her own.

Dot told her what the maid had said, and Mrs. Liggs nodded
comprehendingly.

“Well, that’s what it is—an account of Billy Gee and your dad,
sweetheart,” she said. “The papers are full of it, and that’s why I
come to-day to see you. I wanted you to know the truth.”

“But—but what has happened?” cried Dot, pale and starting to
tremble.

“Nothing, honey, and that’s the worst of it. If it was true I
wouldn’t care, ’cos it couldn’t be helped. It’s just a whole lot of
rot that them reporters glory to write about.”

Thereupon, she gave the girl the details of a sensational first-page
story telling of Billy Gee’s sudden reappearance at the Huntington
ranch, after the authorities of San Buenaventura County had
conclusively stated that he had perished on the desert following his
escape from Warburton; how he had made away in the railroad
detective’s automobile, and an account of Lemuel’s arrest on
suspicion of having appropriated the stolen funds of the Mohave &
Southwestern Railroad Company, and his subsequent release pending
further investigation, as a result of the note written by the outlaw
declaring that he had dug up and taken with him the
twenty-thousand-dollar cache.

Dot listened attentively throughout that simple recital, an odd
admiration she could not subdue dancing in her eyes at this latest
of Billy Gee’s reckless exploits. Even while her little old friend
was speaking, she understood the reason for this daring bandit’s
action; her father had been suspected of the theft, and Billy Gee
had lied to save him. Moreover, Billy Gee had lied to make wholly
secure his twenty-thousand-dollar gift to her! Her heart beat fast;
she could hear it pounding in her ears. Billy Gee had not forgotten,
was not forgetting her. He was magnificent, romantically magnificent
in his outlawry.

“And no matter how I’ve hated your dad, Dot, I know he never took
that money,” resumed Mrs. Liggs, after a short pause. “He’s honest
and wouldn’t do such a thing.”

“You’ve hated dad?” echoed the girl, staring incredulously at the
bowed gray head.

She thought there was something infinitely pathetic in the
appearance of that small figure before her, the droop of its narrow
shoulders, the forlornness of its pose. This was not the sprightly,
merry, little storekeeper she had known these last three years in
far-off Geerusalem.

“I did, yes. But that’s all passed now. I’ve been happy to
forget—and forgive, Dot.”

“Why, Mother Liggs! I won’t believe it. You and father have always
been such good friends.”

The older woman nodded uncertainly at the carpet. She did not answer
at once. The faint flush of excitement, which her cheeks had worn
until now, vanished. Her gentle face was white and drawn; her lips
were twitching.

“I’ve—I’ve come to tell you something, honey—not because I want to,
but because he asked me to. I’m—I’m Billy Gee’s mother, Dot.” Her
whisper, broken, scarcely audible, penetrated to the farthest recess
of that cold, silent room.

She turned brimming eyes to the girl now, and there was an appeal in
them that could not be misunderstood—a dumb, fearful eagerness, a
hungry waiting for a word, a touch, a smile; a look like that of
some wretched penitent craving mercy. A painful, tragic pause
ensued.

“You’re _his_ mother?” repeated Dot slowly at last. She gazed almost
in ludicrous unbelief at the withered, wistful, old countenance
raised to hers. Then suddenly an ineffable tenderness suffused the
girl’s face, poured from her eyes. She fell on her knees beside Mrs.
Liggs and gathered her close in her arms. “You’re a wonderful little
mother, and I love you better for being _his_ mother—because I know
it,” she breathed, half sobbing, and kissed the aged cheeks again
and again, and fondled the thin, tired hands against her bosom.

For the next quarter of an hour Mrs. Liggs opened her heart, laid it
bare of its secrets—for the first time since the criminal career of
her only child, Jerome, had darkened the future for her and filled
her life with fears and heartaches. Weeping softly, she told that
tragic story, from that awful morning in Marysville, three years
before, when the police came to the Liggs home searching for
Jerome—charged by City Treasurer Gene Miles with embezzlement of
city funds—up to the day of his capture by Lemuel Huntington.

As any mother would, she tried to excuse her wayward boy for
everything he had subsequently done in defiance of law, by pointing
out that the criminal authorities had hounded him, made him a social
outcast, thereby forcing him to pursue his desperate calling as a
means of living. Nor was she wholly wrong in her accusation, as any
ex-convict will straightway affirm. A penitentiary record—though
Billy Gee had never known the interior of a prison cell—is a full
brother to guilt forever after, in the eyes of the law’s
bloodhounds.

Society seems to forget that the man who pays the debt it imposes on
him regains, by every moral principle, his standing among the ranks
of righteous humankind. Instead, breaking faith with the very
justice it presumes to mete out, it claps the stigma of ignominy on
the wrongdoer and never removes it; once a jailbird, always a
jailbird, is the tenor of its smug opinion, and being itself
ruthless in the exercise of its self-bestowed powers, it gives to
men of the Coates and Tyler type authority to apprehend
law-breakers. Incompetency and political patronage rule the system
of law enforcement, making it a stupid, clumsy institution whose
methods of operation serve rather to increase than decrease the
commission of crime.

Mrs. Liggs was still speaking when a sharp rap sounded on the parlor
door. It was the maid, coming to inform Dot that Miss Jessie
Longwell, president of the seminary, wished to speak with her in the
office. The girl thought for a moment; then, insisting that her
little old friend accompany her, she escorted Mrs. Liggs out of the
room and down the spacious hall to another apartment, fitted with
correct businesslike furnishings, including a large flat-top oak
desk before which sat the head of the school.

Miss Longwell was, at a glance, a most unattractive specimen of
middle-aged person, haughty, self-contained, precision itself, and
thin as a lath. She sat rigid as a steel spring in her straight-back
chair, and let her stony, gimlet eyes back of their immense
shell-rimmed glasses, rest icily on Dot; then she focused them
inquiringly on Mrs. Liggs.

“Miss Huntington,” she began, in a quick, crisp voice, “I said, I
believe, that I wished to speak with you privately.”

“This is Mrs. Liggs, Miss Longwell, a very dear friend of mine,”
returned Dot, by way of explanation, at the same time going through
the formalities of introduction. “Whatever must be said may be done
so in her presence. I think I know the nature of the interview,” she
added.

Miss Longwell’s lips tightened, then she got up very decidedly and
closed the door. On her way back to her desk she halted before Dot.

“I regret very much, Miss Huntington,” she said, speaking in slow
impressive tones, “that an unfortunate condition has arisen which
makes it quite impossible for you to continue as a student of
Longwell Seminary. Indeed, it distresses me greatly to have to make
this fact known to you. Your conduct has been most exemplary in the
short time you have been here, and as to your application and
progress in the several lines of study you have taken up, you have
exceeded our fullest expectations. But——”

“What is this condition you just mentioned, Miss Longwell?” broke in
Dot.

“Why—er—it concerns your father. Now, while I have not the slightest
doubt that the—er—thing is simply a newspaper canard, still the
long-standing reputation of Longwell’s Seminary as an institution of
high ideals cannot be placed in jeopardy under any circumstances.
Why, your father, Miss Huntington, I am very grieved to state is
accused of possible complicity in a—in a theft.”

Dot flushed angrily. The manner of the speaker as she pronounced the
word was insulting, she thought.

“But you have met my father, Miss Longwell. Do you absolutely think
he’s that kind of man?” she asked quietly.

“To be frank with you, I don’t. Still, as you must certainly
realize, that does not alter the case. The mere accusation is so
serious as to cause unfavorable comment, if not cast discredit on
this institution, did we allow you to remain a member of our student
body. This was the unanimous verdict of our board of trustees at a
meeting which just now adjourned. Acting under its instruction, I am
wiring your father. You will get your effects together, preparatory
to leaving. I would add that I am extremely sorry, Miss
Huntington——”

“I’m not!” interrupted Dot suddenly. She drew her slim figure up
with queenly defiance, her eyes glittering dangerously. “And what is
more, Miss Longwell, I do not want your sympathy. I am glad that I
have at least found out just how really elevating a school of this
kind is. You pride yourselves on building up character. You help
ruin reputations as readily, I notice. By sending me home, you
advertise to the world that Lemuel Huntington is a thief, that I,
his daughter, am the child of a thief—a person too low to attend so
pure and undefiled an institution as——”

“Oh, deary, you mustn’t say such awful things!” burst out Mrs. Liggs
nervously.

“Miss Huntington, the interview is over,” snapped the preceptress, a
flush mantling her prominent high cheek bones. “You will retire to
your room, where you will await my orders.”

“Your orders?” cried Dot. “Madam, I’m serving notice on you that I’m
leaving your spotless institution just as soon as I can pack my
belongings! And you will please return me the balance of my tuition
fee before I go.”

Reluctantly she allowed pacifying little Mrs. Liggs to lead her from
the room and back into the parlor. Burning with shame and
indignation, she paced the floor for some minutes, while the older
woman talked, counseling her against the reënactment of the scene in
the office when she applied to Miss Longwell for her money.
Presently, they had arranged it between them that Dot was to stop
with her friend until word could be got to Lemuel. Within the hour,
they were descending the front steps, the tuition fee in Dot’s
purse, the sympathetic maid instructed to send the girl’s baggage to
Mrs. Liggs’ home.

As they took their seats in a taxi, and Dot kissed sprightly fingers
at Longwell’s Seminary, another machine came to a stop on the
opposite side of the street. The lone passenger, on the point of
getting out, stopped and stared after the other cab now whirling
rapidly away. It was Lex Sangerly. He had been told at the Golden
West Hotel that Lemuel had departed for Geerusalem, after presumably
having entered his daughter in Longwell Seminary. Whereupon, Lex had
decided to visit the girl, introduce himself through the medium of
Mrs. Liggs’ friendship, and question her in the hope that she might
throw some light on the mysterious disappearance of the contents of
Billy Gee’s saddlebags.

From this it may be deduced that Lex had not read the sensational
newspaper story that day, incriminating Lemuel Huntington in the
affair. Just now, he gazed in growing amazement at the taxi speeding
down the street.

“By George! If that isn’t Mrs. Liggs, I’ll——” he burst out and ended
by shouting hurried instructions to the chauffeur. The next moment
he had started in pursuit of the cab.


CHAPTER XIII—SINISTER FOREBODINGS

Mrs. Agatha Liggs occupied a neat cozy four-room cottage in the
residential section of San Francisco, known as Richmond District. A
well-kept garden, colorful with blossoming plants, flanked and
fronted it; and there was a Cherokee rose which spread its wild
luxuriant arms across the length of the porch and festooned it thick
with its pink, floppy flowers during the early spring. Six blocks
away, across a field of lupins, the waves of the blue Pacific lapped
a narrow stretch of beach under the shadow of crumbling shale
cliffs. The Presidio fortifications loomed here and there along the
heights, frowning, formidable piles of concrete out of which peeped
the grim noses of long-range guns turned seaward, reminding one of
dogs of war everlastingly on the alert for the first scent of
danger.

It was a mile or more from the Longwell Seminary to Mrs. Liggs’
home, and on the way there, Billy Gee’s mother found time to finish
telling Dot her story, which the maid had interrupted when she came
to summon the girl before the preceptress. This had to do
principally with the fact that the bandit, after his escape, had
written her a letter which she had received the same day Lemuel’s
telegram reached her. He told her where he was in hiding and,
following a night of harrowing thought—fearful that he might risk a
trip to Geerusalem to see her, and be captured—she had decided to
dispose of her dry-goods store and move away from Soapweed Plains.
Learning that Dot was to enter school in San Francisco, and having
no definite plans as to where to establish her residence, she had
chosen the metropolis, happy in the knowledge, she said, that she
would be near her friend whom she would see often, besides feeling
certain that her outlaw son could make his home with her, secure in
the crowded confines of a great city, and abandon forever his
lawless calling.

Selling her store, she had boarded a train and gone south with
Tinnemaha Pete, and under the guidance of the old desert prospector,
had found Billy Gee’s hiding place—a lonely desert cave, in a
lonelier cañon of the Calico Range. But the outlaw was absent, and
though they waited several days for him, until the provisions they
had brought along were gone, he did not return. At last, filled with
misgivings, she had come away at the instance of Tinnemaha Pete who,
after accompanying her to the nearest settlement, went back to
acquaint her son with her plans when he came. Arriving in the city,
she had rented the cottage and written Billy Gee, giving her new
address, and had received a long letter from him the day before.

“And it’s the blessedest letter I ever got from him, Dot,” she
concluded, her old eyes swimming. “I think he’s—I think he’s quit
the awful life. I’m praying God every, every night, to give him
strength.”

Dot made no reply. Her arm stole around the other, and she gazed
ahead, an odd light in her eyes.

The taxi drew up to the cottage, and they got out. Mrs. Liggs led
the way along the narrow walk, pausing every few steps to point out
to the girl the glories of the garden. As they were about to go in
the house, Lex Sangerly’s machine arrived. He came bounding through
the gate, shouting out a merry greeting to Mrs. Liggs.

“You should know better than try to sneak away from me, Mother
Liggs,” he cried, as he halted before her, wringing her hands and
laughing at her bewilderment. “That was a shameless way to treat a
fellow—not even tell him you were selling out. I absolutely demand
an apology—and a pumpkin pie. I followed you all the way from the
seminary.”

“Goodness me, Lex, what in the world—— It was all so sudden, Lex,
that I——” she began, with a tremulous pathetic smile. “You’ve got to
forgive me. Sometimes things don’t go just right for folks, and they
act without thinking. This is Mr. Sangerly, Dot. And you’ve heard me
speak of Miss Huntington, Lex.”

“Indeed, yes,” he smiled pleasantly. “Mrs. Liggs has said some very
flattering things about you, Miss Huntington. I am always delighted
to meet a good friend of hers.”

Here Mrs. Liggs briefly explained to Dot that the Sangerlys had once
been neighbors of hers in San José and gave a number of humorous
instances to prove Lex’s shocking capacity for pumpkin pie.
Laughing, they entered the cottage and, while the visitor waited in
the parlor, the women went through the prosaic process of removing
their street clothes and donning house dresses. A little later, Mrs.
Liggs bustled off for the kitchen—for they must have a cup of her
favorite tea, she merrily announced—and Dot joined Lex.

They sat opposite each other and, as they talked, the man admitted
to himself that this girl, inhabitant of the desert though she was,
surpassed in many respects the young women with whom he was
acquainted in such cultured California centers as Pasadena and
Burlingame. There was a native refinement about her, a charming
grace of movement—little subtle characteristics of elegance—that
caused him to marvel and to conclude that she must have inherited
them from her mother, since her father certainly lacked them. But
what particularly impressed him was the fresh, striking beauty of
her, the spirit and frankness and deep strain of sympathy in her
face, and that elusive something that marked her at a glance a
daughter of the waste lands.

They talked on. Yes, he had heard she was attending Longwell
Seminary, and she had been informed that his father was Western
manager of the Mohave & Southwestern Railroad. They both liked
Geerusalem. She told him a number of things about herself, chiefly
how she loved to read and how greatly she wanted to write
stories—gripping stories of adventure. He sat and listened to her
and confidentially affirmed to himself that here was a girl who
would have fitted into his life as perhaps no other would—not even
his petite, brown-eyed fiancée, daughter of the steamship company’s
president whose guest he was during his stay in San Francisco.

Doubtless it was this strong appeal which Dot’s personality had for
him that made it quite impossible for him to explain his mission to
her. He shied at opening the subject, and as for deliberately
cross-examining her, he felt that it was out of the question. She
was too obviously not the type of girl to have anything to do with
an illegal act of any kind; of that he was assured. Rather, he
believed, she was the sort who would have reported to Warburton at
the time whatever suspicions she might have had regarding Billy
Gee’s movements. However, he presently contrived to turn the
conversation to the outlaw’s escape and he noted a new interest
flash up in her eyes, as he did so. It puzzled him.

“Perhaps, I’m biased, Miss Huntington, because of my association
with the M. & S., but nothing would make me happier than to hear
that he was lodged in a San Quentin dungeon for life, or shot down
by a posse,” he replied slowly, in answer to her questions as to his
opinion of the outlaw’s exploits. “Rather brutal, isn’t it?”

“Altogether brutal, Mr. Sangerly,” she said frankly. “But then, I’m
also biased. You see, I owe him considerable, in a way, and won’t
allow myself to forget it.” She paused, meeting his eyes. “If my
father had not captured him and gotten the reward, I wouldn’t be in
San Francisco to-day, with the opportunity of an education before
me—the chance of seeing something outside of Soapweed Plains and
Geerusalem all my life. I am candid in telling you this. It’s true.”
Her expression changed. “Sometimes the thought sickens me. It’s like
blood money.”

He broke into a hearty laugh. “Nonsense, Miss Huntington! Why, if we
were to stop and consider the history of the dollar—the grief,
misery, degradation, filth that each almighty dollar has been the
means of creating—we’d be too nauseated to look at it, to say
nothing of buying our daily bread with it and dropping it in the
collection plates!”

“There may be a lot in that, but in my case the evidence is right
before me—staring me out of countenance. To me, it’s just like
selling a soul. And because I feel that way about it, I know I’m
deeply indebted to Billy Gee——”

“Bosh!” cried Lex. “He’s a law-breaker—a dangerous desperado. He
robs men, seizes other men’s belongings, appropriates to himself
what isn’t his, threatens men’s lives to do it. Miss Huntington,
anybody who captures such an animal, who rids the world of such an
animal, deserves far more than your father received from the M. &
S.” He had spoken brusquely, animated by a conscientious detestation
of crime and criminals in any form. She was watching him, studying
him curiously. “The only regret I have,” he added, “is that he had
to die. I would rather see such a man wearing out his soul in
prison.”

“He’s dead, did you say? Why, father wrote me that Mr. Warburton was
of the opinion that——” A faint smile hovered about her lips, a
tantalizing smile.

“Bob Warburton is a person of foresight; usually he knows what he’s
talking about. But in this case—— Why, if Billy Gee were alive, Miss
Huntington, we would have heard from him long ago. He was one of
those ugly customers who have a mania for seeing their names in
print. Isn’t it significant that our trains have not been robbed—not
even molested—since the day of his capture? Billy Gee was a
bred-in-the-bone crook, Miss Huntington, the type that never
reforms. He perished on the desert, and I’m saying that with all due
respect to the opinion of our good friend, Warburton.”

Dot did not reply. Her mind went back to the night she had parted
with Billy Gee in the dark hayloft, the moon shining through the
hole under the eaves, showing him standing knee-deep in the loose
hay, reflecting on the bloody bandage around his head. She heard his
voice again, saying:

“You’re goin’ to hear from me, Miss Huntington—some time. An’—an’ I
hope you’ll be proud, like you jest said.” It was the sound of his
voice, the way he had spoken those words, that remained ever vivid
in her memory. To-day, she had met the mother of Billy Gee!

At this juncture Mrs. Liggs entered the parlor to announce that
luncheon was ready. They seated themselves at the table in the cool
little dining room, and their hostess poured the tea and led the
conversation, which ran the gamut from reminiscences of bygone days
in San José to a series of interesting episodes in and around
Geerusalem. But she steered carefully clear of any mention of
lawlessness, being fearful of bringing the name of her bandit son
into the discussion and hearing Lex’s criticism of him—the chum he
believed dead.

“You men folks think us women don’t know anything about business,”
she laughed gayly. “But there’s some of us do, Lex, and I’m one of
them. Of course, you’ll say that when it comes to selling overalls
and socks and cotton shirts I’m fine, but that I ain’t got any idea
about big business—real big business. Now, won’t you?”

The talk had turned to a speculation of Geerusalem’s future, Lex
taking issue with Mrs. Ligg’s statement that as a gold-producer it
would surpass both the Nevada camps of Goldfield and Tonopah.

“No, I wouldn’t say that, Mother Liggs,” he replied. “Honestly, I
believe you have keen foresight. I’d rather take your opinion than
that of many mining engineers I know. But it really seems an
exaggeration to say that——”

“I’m agreeing with you, Mother Liggs,” broke in Dot
enthusiastically, and added in serious tones: “Geerusalem, Mr.
Sangerly, is only in its infancy, as you know, and yet, look at its
mines! They’re enormously rich, and new prospects are being
uncovered right along. The only thing that’s keeping it back is the
unscrupulous type of men that have control—rule it. Have you heard
of the terrible power they wield—the awful acts they commit?”

Lex nodded, his mind going back to his encounter with Boss Quintell
that evening before Mrs. Liggs’ dry-goods store, the scene in the
street when Quintell’s henchmen rallied, surrounded him, glowering
and menacing, at the sound of their master’s voice.

“I haven’t the slightest doubt but that Geerusalem has a flattering
future,” he admitted presently. “As a matter of truth, it is so
certain of being a permanent camp that the M. & S. is about to begin
surveying for a spur track into it, from the Mirage station. That
goes to prove the company’s confidence in it. And I may say, Miss
Huntington, that your father’s ranch, from what I’m able to learn,
is quite likely to be on the right of way.”

A glad cry broke from Dot. “Oh, won’t that be wonderful! Just
imagine, Mother Liggs, sitting on the front porch, watching the
trains go by!”

“In my opinion, it will increase the value of the property to an
appreciable degree,” said Lex. “I’ve been wondering why your father
hasn’t gone in for cattle raising——”

He ceased speaking. An audible little gasp had escaped Mrs. Liggs.
He looked at her and saw that her pale-blue eyes were fixed on him,
wide with excitement and dismay.

“Good heavens!” she burst out. “It just come to me who told me about
that branch line, Lex. There’s a scheme on to stop it. They’re going
to keep it out of Geerusalem if they got to kill and murder to do
it.”

A short silence fell. Lex regarded her curiously a moment before he
spoke.

“I think you must be mistaken, Mother Liggs,” he said finally. “I
don’t think any one would oppose a spur into Geerusalem. It would
help make the camp. Who do you mean by _they_?”

“Jule Quintell and his crowd. Listen! About a month ago, George
Harrison—he’s Quintell’s private secretary—came into my store to buy
something. I’ve known him ever since he arrived in camp; that’s
about two years. He’d been drinking this afternoon. We got talking,
and I asked him if there was anything new—sociablelike, you know.
And he said they’d been tipped off that a railroad company was
figuring on building a track into camp from the main line.

“I told him I thought it’d be just the thing we needed. He
laughed—oh, so nasty!—and leaned over the counter and said: ‘Mrs.
Liggs, railroads generally get their own way, but they won’t in this
neck of the woods. We’re going to draw a line in the sand and tell
them they’ll go that far and no further.’ ‘You sure ain’t going to
stop them, Mr. Harrison?’ I asked. ‘We’re going to make them come to
us. And if they try their strong-arm tactics we’ll give them all
they’re looking for. If it’s a case of fight we’ll make Soapweed
Plains look like a slaughterhouse.’ I seen that he’d been drinking
considerable and I figured he might he bragging, and I never thought
nothing more about it till just now when you mentioned the spur
track.”

Lex lit a cigarette and gave her a smile. “I think you’ll find he
was doing that very thing, Mother Liggs—bragging. Admitting that
this fellow Quintell is a power in Geerusalem and that his word is
law—why, if he so much as voiced an objection to so important a
factor to the camp’s progress, as a railroad, his most trusted
followers would turn against him. Men nowadays appreciate the value
of transportation facilities. They may buck the railroad companies
on every issue and all that sort of thing, but they can’t get along
without trains and they know it. Quintell wouldn’t dare put a
single, solitary obstacle in the way of a spur track. On the
contrary, he’ll peel off his coat and help us.”

“Don’t you be too sure about that,” said Mrs. Liggs, with a warning
shake of her head. “You don’t know him, Lex. Old Nick ain’t any
trickier than he is, and when it comes to being real dirty and cruel
and murderous, he’s worse than the devil and all his fiends. He just
plays with men—like a cat does with a mouse. Any man that crosses
him is as good as gone. If Quintell can’t crush him to the wall,
ruin him, run him out of camp, he has his throat cut; the buzzards
finish him. And it’s all done quietly. There’s no proof or nothing.
And all the time it’s getting stronger and stronger, the Quintell
machine is working day and night, growing bolder, reaching out here
and there and grabbing mining property, deliberately stealing it.
I’ve heard that a lot of good men have been forced to join the
gangsters, ’cos they’re afraid if they don’t stand in, they’ll lose
their mines—if they don’t turn up missing themselves, some morning.”

Lex gave a short laugh. “I remember you warned me that evening I met
him in front of your store,” he said easily; “and I’m going to
repeat what I told you. It’s this: He’ll meet the wrong man—at the
right time, Mother Liggs. But tell me, his power lies in the slum
element of the camp only, doesn’t it?”

“You see that!” she cried triumphantly. “You ain’t got the least
idea how he works, how cunning he is. No, it doesn’t! There’s mining
engineers, brokers, and assayers—influential rascals—in his clique.
They’re the brains of the gang. The slum element, as you call it,
are just the tools and they do what they’re told—all the
claim-jumping and fighting and killing. Quintell, as anybody’ll tell
you, is the boss. They control the constable and the courts, and no
matter what one of the gang does, he ain’t even arrested. I tell
you, Lex, he’s dangerous, as deadly as sin. He’s always put me in
mind of a big, horrible, poisonous spider that gets fat killing
little bugs and eating them.”

“Well, there’s one satisfaction, Mother Liggs,” he replied, as he
reached over and patted her hand: “The career of a bad man is
usually short. He’s like a mosquito—he stings one time too many.
There was Billy Gee, for example. Never was there a more
contemptible scoundrel ever lived than that miserable renegade——”

“Pardon me for interrupting you, Mr. Sangerly, but are you in the
mood for a surprise?”

It was Dot who spoke. While Mrs. Liggs and Lex were talking she had
quietly left the table and gone into the bedroom. She stood now just
inside the door, her face sightly flushed, her eyes shining with an
odd light. In her hand, she held the loot of the M. & S., wrapped in
her mother’s old silk shawl. Mrs. Liggs, her snowy head resting on
her hand, gazed listlessly into her plate.

“A surprise is always in order, Miss Huntington,” laughed Lex.
“Providing, of course, it is a pleasant one.”

“I’m going to leave you to judge whether this one is or not,” said
Dot.

She went over to his side of the table, cleared away the dishes, and
placed the neatly-bound sheaf of bills before him.

A dramatic silence fell. He looked, then stared in blank
astonishment at the green and yellow pile for a long moment. Dot was
watching him with dancing eyes. As for Mrs. Liggs, her face was a
study in stark bewilderment.

“What—what’s this? You can’t really mean—is it possible, Miss
Huntington, that——” stammered Lex, and stopped.

“Dot, darling!” burst like a sob from Mrs. Liggs’ parted lips.

“Yes, Mr. Sangerly, those are the actual bills—the exact amount—that
your company lost, twenty thousand dollars,” said Dot in clear,
ringing tones. “I am returning it to you for Billy Gee. I have one
request to make, and that is that you exonerate my father from the
ridiculous charge your detectives have placed against him. If there
has been an accomplice in this matter it is I.” She paused, then
resumed with a smile: “I’ll relate the facts to you and let you
decide for yourself. First, however, in order that you may not labor
under a misapprehension—Billy Gee is alive.”


CHAPTER XIV—AN EPISODE IN THE HILLS

It seldom happens that a sheriff, or any peace officer for that
matter, ever regains the confidence of the public, much less his
popularity, once he loses a prisoner of such supposed badness as was
Billy Gee. Somehow, it is difficult for the voters to believe that a
really efficient official may be caught unawares and outwitted by a
criminal, particularly if that criminal is unarmed and handcuffed
into the bargain. So the conscientious wielder of the franchise goes
to the polls, and on the strength of his theory that a sworn servant
of the people should be invincible and superior to mistake and
oversight, very gravely ousts the incumbent candidate in favor of
the untried timber on the ballot.

The voters of San Buenaventura County, California, were of another
sort, however. Sheriff Bob Warburton had proved up to their ideals
for two terms—even if he hadn’t been able to hold onto the
will-o’-the-wisp bandit of the Mohave. He was sincere, always on the
job, a good fellow, dependable. That he had slipped once, should not
condemn him, asserted the electorate. What man does not slip once?

Regardless of the fact, then, that Warburton had resigned his office
and that his political enemies made a great to-do about the Billy
Gee incident, the people went to the polls strong for Warburton and
reinstated him to office by an avalanche vote. And, as if to confirm
their trust in him, on the very day that he resumed his gold star he
issued a statement to the newspapers in which he vowed to capture
Billy Gee and get him the maximum sentence under the
law—imprisonment for life.

It was a week after election. During that week Warburton received
Dot’s telegram requesting him to come to San Francisco. On the day
following its receipt, while he debated whether he should make the
trip or wire her for particulars, he got an unexpected message from
Lex Sangerly, stating in so many words that the M. & S. money had
been recovered and urging that information be kept secret for the
time being.

Warburton puzzled over the matter for hours. He began to ask himself
if it were not just possible that there existed a clandestine love
affair between Dot and Billy Gee. Because of his intimate knowledge
of Lex’s movements in the case, Warburton was certain that Sangerly
had gone to San Francisco to interview the girl and had found her in
possession of the outlaw’s loot. This, he reasoned, would explain
her telegram that she had something of importance to tell him. Love
alone could have moved Billy Gee to part with twenty thousand
dollars, was the sheriff’s firm conviction.

“’Twouldn’t be the first good woman fell for a scalawag,” he
muttered grimly, as he holstered his six-shooters and picked up his
rifle.

It was at that season of the year when the desert region of southern
California was beginning to feel the atmospheric influences caused
by the early sprinkle of rain descending on the timbered highlands
to the north—the violent gustiness of the wind whipping the sand
into great clouds, the strange sultriness of the nights, the
blood-red sunsets.

Unknown to any member of his office, except his second in command,
Undersheriff Hodgson, Warburton stole out of the county seat one
evening on a still hunt of weeks, and there was in his heart the
kind of determination that stops at nothing to achieve its purpose.

Aside from his desire to merit the faith of the people, there was a
personal angle which made his meeting with the bandit a thing of
vital moment. Any one familiar with the man-hunting game will tell
you that if there is one thing an officer of the law never forgets,
it is a bodily injury received at the hands of a prisoner; also,
that he never quite forgives himself for losing a prisoner. Either
is, loosely speaking, a professional disgrace, but it is more than
that. An officer appreciates only too well that he is the custodian
of the law, that his voice is the voice of the commonwealth, that
his body is as sacred as it is possible for a human body to be
sacred. Sheriff Warburton cherished this belief with pride. Had
Billy Gee held him up at the point of a gun and stripped him of his
valuables, the act would have been more or less forgivable alongside
of striking the _sheriff_ down, shackling the _sheriff_ with the
_sheriff’s_ handcuffs, and making his escape.

The memory of that hurt had burned itself into Warburton’s brain
like some corroding acid. It permeated his being with the deadliness
of a vicious poison. His determination to capture Billy Gee came to
be a mania with him, a mania similar in intensity to that which had
gripped Lemuel Huntington to see Dot educated before he died.

To-day, Sheriff Warburton was out to “get” Billy Gee—not Billy Gee
dead, but Billy Gee alive. He wanted to bring the outlaw into the
county seat of San Buenaventura, so that the people might see that
he had lived up to their expectations as a sheriff, to vindicate his
honor, the pride he felt in himself and his position. Anybody could
sneak up behind a desperado and shoot him down, but few had grit
enough to confront that desperado and take him alive. Warburton was
going to herd Billy Gee into the county seat alive or perish in the
attempt. So he swore to himself at the time.

A-straddle of a mule, driving a pack burro before him, went the grim
sheriff of San Buenaventura County, looking for all the world like a
prospector in his patched-up overalls, old gray hat, and boots worn
down at the heels. A rough mat of whiskers which he had let flourish
untrimmed, disguised him against the possibility of recognition.

Setting out from the town of Burbank, he steered a little north of
east and began a painstaking, systematic visit to every water hole,
spring, and tank on his slow, lonely journey across the north rim of
the Mohave Desert. There were few of these blessed oases—bright
green patches in that universe of gaunt desolation—and many hopeless
miles separated them. A man could never live in that near-hell
without water, and Warburton knew it.

Toward the end of August—a few weeks after Billy Gee’s spectacular
flight from the Huntington ranch in the rented car—Warburton reached
Blue Mud Spring, a forlorn, seldom-visited trickle of water lost in
a topsy-turvy hill country some three miles west of Lemuel’s quarter
sections. Warburton camped there four whole wretched days, waiting;
he had found a rather significant clew, as he thought.

Carved on the flat surface of a soft lime boulder, a few rods away
from the spring was the legend, “Dot H., Aug. 20, 1913.” It had been
done by a man, the work of an idle jackknife. The date was the one
on which Warburton had trailed Billy Gee to the Huntington ranch. It
was the one on which the bandit had met Dot, reasoned the sheriff.

Inspection of the ground back of the boulder showed that the owner
of the jackknife had lain there for some time. The imprint of a
cartridge belt appeared in the dirt. A short distance up a near-by
shallow gulch, his horse had pawed a hole in the loose gravel during
intervals of hunger or impatience.

On the evening of Warburton’s fourth day of solitary vigil, while he
was preparing his supper prospector fashion, the first person he had
seen since leaving the railroad hove in sight from around a bend in
the gulch. Warburton recognized him. It was none other than
Tinnemaha Pete. The old desert rat came pattering forward, driving
his two shying burros before him, urging them onward with wild,
falsetto cries. As he neared the muddy seepage of spring he shooed
them over to drink and toddled up to the sheriff.

“Howdy, stranger!” he piped. “Kinder sultry weather, the last day or
so. Better’n that damn wind we bin havin’. You bin out in it? Lookit
my eyes!” He lifted his rheumy red lips at the other for inspection,
at the same time squinting craftily at him. But he couldn’t
penetrate the thick disguise of beard.

“They sure are alkalied,” said the sheriff. “That’s tough. You’re
jest in time for a feed, friend. Sit in. Where’re you headed?”

“I got claims ’crosst the hills yonder,” said Pete, waving his
skinny arm toward Geerusalem. “Sometimes I come here, sometimes I
hike to camp for water. Prospectin’?”

“That’s my middle name. Lookin’ for rock with one eye an’ watchin’
for that two-gun chap, Billy Gee, with the other. ’Tain’t pleasant,
let me tell you.”

Tinnemaha Pete broke into a wild cackle. “A big walloper like you
skeart of a kid! Say, you’re a tenderfoot, ain’t you?” He leered
suddenly. “Yer hands’re soft. I jest seen the inside of one of ’em.
You can’t fool me, mister.”

“I ain’t tryin’ to, dad,” grinned Warburton. “This here is my first
trip out for nigh on a year. I bin bartendin’ for McGregor, over to
Twenty-nine Palms. You know ‘Gold-tooth’ McGregor, the locoed
Scotchman, wears a clean boiled shirt every day, an’——”

“Do I know that ol’ hoss thief? An’ you bin sellin’ booze for him?
Better man never lived’n—— D’ye happen to have what’s good for snake
bite?” he tittered.

The sheriff dug a bottle out of his pack and passed it to him.
“’Tain’t as fine’s it might be, but it beats nothin’,” grimaced
Tinnemaha Pete, as he wiped his mouth. “An’ after you workin’ in
that rough-house joint of McGregor’s, you’re leery of Billy Gee!
Say, d’ye know that boy’s a genius! He’s a cat for lives an’ a fox
for tricks. He’s showed up ag’in. Ain’t you heerd? Lordy! Hell burn
my soul, if he ain’t writ another notice an’ stuck it up on the
blackboard of the _Searchlight_! Yes, he did—night afore last.
‘Warburton, I’m glad you’ve been reëlected sheriff. You’re the only
man for the job. I mean it.’ That’s what the notice said. Ain’t that
the tantalizin’ young devil?” Tinnemaha’s old eyes snapped proudly.

Warburton’s teeth set under their cover of beard. He began
apportioning the fried rashers of bacon into two tin plates.

“One of these days Mr. Sheriff’ll nab that galoot. Jest you watch,”
he replied slowly. “An’ when he does——”

“If he does,” hooted the old man, “he’s a Jim Dandy. If it hadn’t
bin for Lem Huntington, the dirty——”

He broke off in his eccentric way, trotted over to his pack animals,
and started throwing off their loads. Presently he had them hobbled
for the night and was back at the fire, squatting on the ground, his
heaping plate in his lap. They ate in silence, Warburton studying
his guest curiously, listening to him mumbling over his food.

When the dishes had been washed and stacked away in a kyack, and the
two men had filled and lighted their pipes, Sheriff Warburton
returned to the subject uppermost in his mind.

“Yessir, jest like you said, dad, if it hadn’t been for this rancher
Huntington gittin’ the drop on Billy Gee, the sheriff would ’a’
never——”

“Lem Huntington’s a ornery skipjack—a louse,” cried Tinnemaha Pete
in sudden fury. “He togs up like a tinhorn gambler an’ smokes
seegars now, an’ he’s bought a bunch of cows an’ is plantin’ a patch
in alfalfee. The cussed scrub! The ring-necked buzzard! I know,
stranger! They can’t fool old Tinnemaha Pete. Leetle Miss
Dot—there’s a angel for you, mister! She hid out Billy Gee that day,
an’ her dad nails him for the reeward. The t’rantula!”

It had grown quite dark. The purple sky was brilliant with stars; a
warm, fragrant breeze purred down upon the night camp from over the
shattered crests of the rocky hills. In the leaping firelight,
Tinnemaha’s wizened features were distorted with senile rage. His
black, short-stemmed pipe trembled in his bony, clawlike hand.

“You ain’t never met up with Billy Gee, eh?” he asked. “I did. Yes,
siree, I know him! They ain’t a finer boy no place, they ain’t. An’
along comes this yaller snake, Lem Huntington, an’——”

“How d’you know that Miss Huntington hid Billy Gee?” interrupted
Warburton casually. “You’re jest mebby guessin’ at it. You don’t
know for sure.”

“Guessin’!” shrilled Tinnemaha Pete. “Guessin’, yore gran’mother.
Mrs. Liggs told me, an’ I figger she oughter know.”

“Why?”

“’Cos Lem Huntington—yes, he told her, that’s why. You wait till me
an’ him tangle. I found mineral on his ground an’—damn him, he’d
better not try no shenanigans with me! Not with ol’ Peter Boyd. Mark
me, stranger! I’ll cut him up. Sure’n scat, I’ll cut him up!”

Puffing frantically at his wheezing cold pipe, he bobbed his gray
head at the fire, his puckered-up eyes flickering with a mad light.

Warburton tossed a snarl of sagebrush on the coals. As the flames
leaped up, he glanced keenly at the queer little shriveled figure
across from him. After an interval, he said:

“You reckillect the time las’ summer when Billy Gee nailed that
there other sign on the _Searchlight’s_ bulletin board, sayin’ he’d
bin huntin’ for Warburton for three year, an’——” Tinnemaha
brightened suddenly and gave a wild laugh. “Well, the sheriff told
me that he got a-hold of that paper notice,” continued Warburton
slowly. “It ’pears like it was a fancy sort o’ wrappin’ paper, an’
Warburton he mosied ’round Geerusalem till he found the store that
used that pertickler kind. It was a dry-goods store, run by a
woman—Mrs. Agatha Liggs.

“The sheriff didn’t do nothin’ about it then, figgerin’ that Billy
Gee mighta jest bought suthin’ there an’ used the paper to write on.
Now——” He paused. Trained to read men’s minds by their change of
facial expression, he had been quick to note the look of suspicion
which flashed across Tinnemaha’s wrinkled countenance. He finished
his recital with a wild guess. “What is Mrs. Liggs to Billy Gee—aunt
or mother?”

The old man chuckled mirthlessly. He drew a brand out of the fire
and lit his pipe. “I ain’t ever goin’ to tell you, mister. I ain’t
got no way of knowin’. Mark ye! I don’t keep cases on other folks’
business. Ol’ Tinnemaha Pete’s got too much of his own to ’tend to.
Am I right or wrong—what?”

“Aunt or mother, dad?” smiled the sheriff indulgently. “Come on now,
you ain’t foolin’ me one bit. I’ve heerd for years as how Tinnemaha
Pete knows most everythin’ on the Mohave——”

“The hell you say!” exploded the desertarian. He thrust his skinny
neck across the camp fire, and concentrated the gaze of his
red-rimmed eyes on Warburton’s whiskered face. “I don’t ever
reckillect seein’ you afore—not with that crop. Mebby I’d know you
shaved. What’s yore name?”

“Jack Sangerly,” lied Warburton.

“Spangaree? Seems to me I met—— Yessir! Agatha give me a knockdown
to a dude feller, tol’rable sort—had on ’bout five hunderd dollars
o’ sporty togs. That’s the name—Spangaree. But he was a ol’ friend
of the fambly, she said.”

Warburton smiled. “That’s my brother, Lex, you met,” he said
blandly. “Lex’s bin edjicated in Frisco, an’ I reckon he knew her
there. Say, come to think of it, I b’lieve he did tell me she was
Billy Gee’s mother! Sure’s shootin’! It was over to the grading camp
where Billy held up the paymaster of the M. & S., some time after.”
He nodded gravely at the flames, but he was watching the other,
hawklike.

Tinnemaha Pete gave vent to a paroxysm of hysterical laughter.
“’Tain’t like yore brother to lie to you, is it, Spangaree?” he
cackled, and resumed a vigorous puffing at his pipe. Thus for some
seconds, then he added abstractedly: “But Agatha she knowed the
whole Spangaree fambly, an’ said as how the dude feller I met an’
Jerome was kids together.”

“Jerome—Liggs!” gasped Warburton. In a twinkling, he remembered the
embezzlement of the Marysville city funds!

Tinnemaha Pete did not hear him. The little old fellow’s faded blue
eyes, now snapping with a malicious fire, were riveted on him.

“If you’re a deteckitive, stranger, God Almighty help ye!” he went
on. “Billy Gee hangs out here. Like as not, he’s out in the dark
yonder, takin’ it all in. Mark what I say! Close yore damn trap!” He
spoke in a heavy, cracked whisper, and Warburton cast a furtive eye
over the vicinity.

It was black night beyond the small circle of firelight, the desert
hills tragically still, a subtle warning in Tinnemaha Pete’s voice
and manner. A short silence fell. The desertarian broke it with a
rough chuckle and shook his head at his pipe.

“But he ain’t,” he ruminated, half to himself. “Lem Huntington knows
where he is. Gol ding his flea-bitten hide! I hope Billy cuts him
up, like I aim to. Jest let him try robbin’ ol’ Peter Boyd of them
Billy Geerusalem claims, an’ I’ll fetch him. I’ll turn a knife into
him. I’ll cut him up—chop him to pieces. Jest nacherly make hash
outer the skunk. I sure will. Jest nacherly make hash outer him——”

He mumbled on for a spell, then dropped off to sleep, looking for
all the world—sitting there before the dying fire—like a little pile
of discarded old clothes thrown over a stump.

Warburton waited a few minutes, gazing thoughtfully at him. At last,
getting cautiously to his feet, he saddled the mule and struck out
for the Huntington ranch. Tinnemaha Pete had given him enough of a
clew to go on. More important still, Jerome Liggs and Billy Gee were
one and the same. Jerome Liggs, who had disappeared three years ago
as if the earth had opened and swallowed him, was alive, here, on
the point of capture! Warburton rode slowly, warily along. This was
the biggest hour of his whole life. He was on the eve of the
greatest triumph of his career.

“I’m a-goin’ to git you, Billy Gee. I’m a-goin’ to git you!” he
murmured into the night.


CHAPTER XV—THE POTENT INFLUENCE

As has been said, Geerusalem was at the time the Mecca of the
gregarious creatures designated as wildcatters—ruthless, scoundrelly
gentlemen who wax fat by selling worthless blocks of fabulous mining
stock to gullibles and trusting innocents in far-away places, women
being for the most part their easier victims. To-day, they were the
power in Geerusalem, and Mrs. Liggs in her talk with Lex Sangerly
had not exaggerated the methods of these money-grabbing rascals one
whit. They controlled the camp and the representatives of the law.
They had the respectable citizenry figuratively by the throat, the
newspapers truckling to their wishes. Briefly, they did what they
pleased; not altogether openly, however. There was a grand jury down
at the county seat, a hundred miles or so away, that might happen to
train an eye in their direction, and certain State officials who
might start an investigation.

Everything then that was done unlawfully was done under a veneer of
mystery, or lacking that, “framed” so cleverly as to deceive the
wiliest inquisitor, should such a rare bird appear on the ground.

In the first place, the master mind of this invisible organization
was Jule Quintell. He was a formidable character physically and
mentally, merciless at the base, diplomatic and rash by turns; in
many ways a dual personality who could be trusted to put over
whatever he undertook. His was the gift to scheme, to set the stage,
to spring the trap, to wrest the holdings from the victim, whether
by eviction or the six-shooter, for property—mining property—was
what Quintell and his confederates wanted and were getting.
Individual claims and groups of claims were piling in on them, and
as fast as they were acquired they were parceled off, given a name,
put through the process of incorporation, and the stock floated.
Exquisitely engraved certificates found their way across the
continent to the gullibles and trusting innocents, who dreamed in
vain of enormous dividends which would set them on Easy Street in
short order.

Claims that gave promise of paying were never thus exploited,
however. They were carefully prospected, “dressed up” if they did
not fulfill expectations, and through the medium of glowing reports
published in the subsidized newspapers, they sold for fancy prices;
for there were always rich suckers drifting into this infant prodigy
of gold camps, looking to invest.

Boss Quintell’s associates, whom Mrs. Liggs had designated as the
“brains” of the element were, even as she had said, assayers, mining
engineers, surveyors, stockbrokers. There were more than a score of
them; as smug and high-handed a coterie of crooks as ever
sidestepped the penitentiary. Against their influence and methods,
the reputable competitor was promptly starved out, forced to seek a
living in other fields. The monopoly of swindling was perfected to a
point where the professions most intimately affiliated with mining
were included, these being amply represented in the trusted
membership of the magic circle.

And yet, taken as a whole, this aggregation of grafters which had
its tentacles spread out across the entire Geerusalem mining
district, slowly killing the spirit of industry and discovery
without which no camp can live, were of themselves not only lacking
in strength but devoid of the necessary courage to defy the decent
element of the town, had the latter voiced objection to their
tactics. Whatever influence the Quintell crowd possessed, the very
success of their lawless enterprise, in fact the death grip they had
on the camp—these things they owed to that majority of population
that seems as much a part in the founding of a settlement in the
wilderness, as its tents and rock huts—the underworld.

Here had forgathered the undesirable from the four winds—gunmen,
thieves, criminals of high and low degree, and they kept flocking in
and plied their vicious trades without fear of interruption. And
flocking in, also, came the type of woman that men know best and
fall easier prey to because they do, while added to these denizens
of the city’s slums, were the drifters, adventurers, and saloon
hangers-on, all bent on getting their share of gold at some other
fellow’s expense.

With this formidable army of undesirables at its back, the Quintell
crowd ruled Geerusalem, and from it, chose its tools who went out at
night and beat up men, drove them off their claims, killed them if
they proved too troublesome. These tools got money for their work.
The element as a whole got protection—license to carry on as its
membership saw fit without interference from the local authorities,
whom Quintell, through bribe and political influence, held in the
hollow of his hand. Crime thrived accordingly, and the remote cases
that did come up for trial in the courts proved ridiculous farces
conducted more to impress the County Bar Association at the distant
county seat that jurisprudence was on the job, than as a matter of
stern equity.

Now, on the very day that Lemuel Huntington had brought Billy Gee a
prisoner into camp, Quintell’s field men reported that Tinnemaha
Pete had discovered a rich gold ledge on the Huntington ranch. Late
that afternoon, while Lex Sangerly and Detectives Coates and Tyler
were searching for the outlaw’s loot at the ranch house half a mile
away, Quintell experts were investigating the ground with a view of
determining the extent of the deposit and estimating its value.

They returned, bringing word that the find was a bonanza from the
grass roots, that the hill on the west end of the Huntington ranch
carried the croppings of three parallel ledges that apparently were
a continuation of the Geerusalem mineral belt. Tinnemaha Pete’s
location notices were made out in the names of Peter Boyd and Jerome
Liggs.

Jule Quintell and his confederates held a two-hour meeting that
evening. They listened to the reports of the experts, heard them
voice the opinion that the new discovery promised to be a monumental
strike, eclipsing anything ever opened up before in the district.
They sat silent, grim of face, ominous, and blew wreaths of smoke
toward the ceiling. Presently they began discussing the matter.

They must acquire this ground. The Geerusalem mines were good
producers, but here was something far better. Moreover, a sister
camp on the same mineral belt, only four miles distant, meant that
its owners would be millionaires overnight. It was not a proposition
of doing business with Tinnemaha Pete and Jerome Liggs. Whoever
these desert rats were did not enter into the issue, for though they
had found and located the deposit, they had no legal claim to it.
Lemuel Huntington owned the ground; it was patented ground. Lemuel
Huntington was the man they must deal with—Lem used to hobnob with
the crowd before he captured Billy Gee and got a start in the world.

The meeting was held in Boss Quintell’s spacious private office in
the Brokers’ Exchange Building, a three-story frame structure that
housed the elaborate publicity and advertising departments—so
essential to successful wildcatting—of three of Geerusalem’s most
prominent stockbrokers.

Messengers began arriving, one to say that Huntington and his
daughter had left for San Francisco, another with the information
that railroad detectives were occupying the ranch house.

Quintell advanced the scheme to be followed for the acquisition of
the bonanza strike. “Big George” Rankin, owner of the Northern
Saloon and dominant figure in the camp’s underworld, was in San
Francisco on business. He was wired to meet Huntington and his
daughter at the ferry terminal, follow them, and telegraph back the
name of the hotel they put up at. Dick Lennox, a young mining
engineer—one of the lesser lights of the gang, but more intimate
with the rancher than any member of it—was chosen to go to the
metropolis and try to bargain for the purchase of the ranch. The
thing was to see Huntington before he returned to Geerusalem, for,
as Quintell pointed out, it was just possible that Dot’s father,
once back in the country, would hear rumors of the discovery of
mineral on his ground and refuse to sell except at his own terms.
Lemuel, then, must not surmise there was one pennyweight of gold on
his land. The land must be bought for a song, as it were.

Receipt by Quintell of Lennox’s telegram telling of his failure to
turn the deal, along with Rankin’s report charging Lennox with
betraying the gang to win favor with Dot, infuriated the boss of
Geerusalem and his associates, made the mining engineer a marked
man, whose arrival in camp was awaited by gunmen with instructions
to “bump him off” as quietly as they could. But Lennox, returning
unexpectedly, got word of his danger from a member of the gang, who,
yielding to the other’s entreaties, hid him in a rear office room,
Lennox agreeing to leave as soon as it was dark.

Terrified at the startling predicament in which he found himself and
not daring to risk flight by train or automobile, Lennox in his
extremity thought of Lex Sangerly, who he remembered was conducting
an investigation at the Huntington ranch. If Sangerly was there, he
knew he could prevail on him to drive him to Mirage; if he was not,
the ranch because of its isolation would furnish him a secure hiding
place until such time as he could find his way in safety out of the
country.

With nightfall then, he struck out afoot for the ranch. He held to
the deserted back streets and went fast, stumbling along in his
feverish haste, glancing over his shoulder. When he reached the
outskirts of camp, where the rough rock cabins of the squatters
began to thin out and the vast emptiness of Soapweed Plains became
discernible through the wide mouth of Geerusalem Gulch, he breathed
easier and slackened his pace. He had eluded the assassins. He was
safe!

But though he had been one of the Quintell crowd, Lennox had never
realized the depth of perfidy in its ranks. The very man who had
warned him and given him shelter, had done so merely to deliver him
into the hands of the killers. Therefore, no sooner had he reached a
lonely point beyond the camp’s confines, where the sagebrush and
greasewood rose thick on each side of the road, than he heard the
quick patter of running feet behind him. The moon was shining. As
Lennox turned, he made out four men bearing down on him less than a
hundred yards away.

“Hey, Lennox, hold on a minute! The gang’s straightened things out.
The boss wants you to come back,” called out a jovial voice.

The fugitive halted undecidedly for an instant. Then, recognizing
his pursuers as uncouthly dressed fellows whom he was sure he did
not know, he took to his heels. Instantly a volley of shots roared
out, and a hail of bullets went screaming past him. In the grip of
terror, he redoubled his speed, dashing desperately onward, gazing
about him for some means of escape. Presently his eyes lighted on a
shack looming black against the background of hill, a few yards to
one side of the road. Just as he discovered it his pursuers sent
another swarm of bullets after him. This time they got him. His leg
suddenly buckled under him, and he pitched headlong to the ground.

“Help! Help!” he cried frenziedly, making a futile effort to get to
his feet.

An answering shout broke from the quartet. Lennox glared around and
saw them coming, racing toward him. He could hear the gravel
crunching nearer with every footfall. He knew that they would shoot
him where he lay, without mercy, as they would shoot a dog, and his
horrible thought picked him off the road and sent him crawling madly
for the shack.

He reached the door and pounded on it.

“Open! They’re going to murder me. Open, in God’s name!” he panted
distractedly.

There was a movement inside the cabin; then the door opened.

“Come in!” said a man’s voice out of the darkness.

Lennox dragged himself inside and lay half-fainting on the floor,
gasping for breath.

Outside he could hear the sounds of the Quintell men approaching the
shack. Then the voice of his unknown deliverer broke quietly through
the place.

“Stop where you are, strangers!”

A heavy silence followed his words.

“We’re deputy sheriffs, pal. You’ve got a man in there we want,”
said one of the men gruffly.

“Let’s see yore authority. Depities kin always flash a tin buzzer.
Let’s see yourn.”

“Never mind the authority. Do you turn him over or not?”

The occupant of the shack gave a low chuckle. “You sure talk like a
depity, sport,” he said in genial tones. “But don’t you never let
Sheriff Warburton hear you make a crack like that——”

The deafening crash of revolvers cut him short, as, without warning,
the gunmen fired. The bullets tore through the partly opened door,
and a shower of splinters fell on Lennox.

“Get him, fellows! Get the——” cursed the spokesman.

“At yore risk, men!” called out the unknown. He threw the door wide
and began shooting with a rapidity that set the mining engineer,
wounded and terrified though he was, marveling vaguely.

The battle ended as suddenly as it had begun. A deep silence
followed. Soon Lennox heard his deliverer moving through the dark
interior and got a glimpse of him as he walked out into the
moonlight. He returned presently and halted in the gloom.

“You hurt bad?” he asked. He spoke calmly, his voice pleasingly low.

“My leg is broken,” said Lennox. “I don’t know that I can ever repay
you for saving my life, friend.”

“I ain’t takin’ pay for savin’ a man’s life. I know what it is to be
a mouse with the cat after it. I’ll fix up yore leg the best I kin
in the dark. ’Tain’t safe to make a light. You got to have a doctor,
I reckon.”

“Not from Geerusalem. It would be signing my own death warrant.
Quintell and his gang are after me.”

“Huh! So, that’s who they were, eh? Purty hard-boiled bunch, that.
Now let’s see that busted leg.”

Kneeling on the floor beside Lennox, he began bandaging above and
below the wound to stop the flow of blood. He worked in the dark
dexterously, tearing long strips of cloth and binding them tightly
around the fractured limb. At the end of ten minutes he rose to his
feet and lit a cigarette and stood for a moment at the door,
listening.

“Why’re they tryin’ to git you?” he asked abruptly.

“They sent me to Frisco to buy a ranch—the Huntington ranch; you
must know it. Anyway, I couldn’t turn the deal, and they blamed me.
Say, do you suppose there’s any danger of blood-poisoning?”

The other did not reply. Lennox, propped on his elbow, waited
anxiously, a new alarm creeping into his heart. Silhouetted
statuelike in the rectangle of moonlight formed by the open door,
stood the stranger. He stood thus, motionless, for a short interval.
Then he inhaled deeply of his cigarette, tossed it away, and came
over to Lennox.

“You give me an idea,” he said, with an odd chuckle. “I’ll git you
to the Huntington ranch. I figger I kin hustle up a doctor who won’t
talk.” He dropped to his haunches beside the other. “Here, ketch me
’round the neck. I’m packin’ you! My hoss is down the gulch a ways.”

With the wounded man clinging to his back, he padlocked the door and
struck out through the brush.

“What happened to them—the four, you know?” asked Lennox, glancing
about over the ground. “It isn’t possible they escaped, and——”

“Sometimes, it’s healthy to keep yore front yard clean, pardner.
Folks are’ awful curious—if you know what I mean,” was the quiet
reply.

The unknown’s horse stood tethered in a small draw. Helping Lennox
into the saddle, the man climbed on behind. They rode on in silence
for many minutes, following the deeply rutted, dusty road that
wormed its way among the windrows of sand and boulders which dotted
Soapweed Plains at this point. Behind them the Geerusalem hills rose
into the sky—a jumbled, massive gray pile, looking like some great,
nameless monster crouching in the night.

“What they want the ranch for?” said the stranger, breaking the long
silence.

“It’s immensely rich—in mineral. I hear it’s the richest gold strike
in the district. But they wouldn’t sell.”

“By _they_, you mean Lem Huntington, don’t you?”

“He was willing enough, at first. But his daughter——Well, to tell
the truth, it was a dirty scheme. I was to tell them the ranch was
wanted for a resort—one of those free-and-easy hangouts for the
sporting crowd. It seems as if there’s a grave in the garden—her
mother’s grave. And the girl wouldn’t—I certainly understand how she
feels.”

“Her mother’s grave,” repeated the unknown very slowly.

The horse jogged along with its double burden. Far ahead, a tiny
blur of black showed the location of the Huntington ranch.

“My leg is hurting me fearfully,” said Lennox at last. “Damn them!
You don’t think there’s danger of blood-poisoning, do you?”

“I’ve heard a lot about Miss Huntington. They say she’s a mighty
fine gal. I’d kinder like to know the pertick’lars if you don’t mind
tellin’ ’em. No, I don’t guess there’s danger o’ blood-poisonin’.
You’ll be all right in a month or two, mebby.”

Lennox groaned at the cheerless prospect that confronted him.

Presently, however, he began the story of the efforts of the
Quintell gang to purchase the Huntington holdings. His indignation
over their treatment of him loosened his tongue, caused him to
overlook not one detail that might go to illustrate the infamous
methods by which they operated. From their discovery that the two
prospectors, Peter Boyd and Jerome Liggs, had located the bonanza
claims, how he had been delegated to talk Huntington into selling,
his meeting with Big George Rankin in San Francisco and later with
Dot and her father in the Golden West Hotel; all this he related and
concluded with the quarrel he and Rankin had had on the street
following his failure to buy the ranch.

“An’ he said that—that Quintell mebby could use her, as his
stenographer?” said the stranger. His voice was like ice in the
other’s ear.

“Yes, and about as nasty as a man could say it.”

“Ain’t this Rankin the feller that owns the Northern Saloon—big
walloper with a red face, sorter straw boss o’ the Stingeree bunch?”

“That’s he. I’ve heard he was bad clean through, one of the worst
characters——”

“I know all about them kind, pal. They sure kin squeal, when you
start workin’ on ’em. Use her as his stenographer, eh?” he repeated,
as if to himself.

They rode along in silence after that, save for the occasional groan
of suffering that broke from Lennox. Within a few hundred yards of
the Huntington ranch, the stranger drew rein and slid to the ground.

“I’m goin’ to let you make it in alone,” he said in low tones.
“You’ll find two detectives there—Sangerly’s men. Jest holler, an’
they’ll come out. Don’t tell nobody about meetin’ me or about the
shootin’ or anythin’. You understand? If they ask questions, jest
say Quintell’s men shot you, an’ that a friend took you in, an’ give
you a hoss.”

“I’ll certainly never forget you, old man, for what you’ve done,”
replied the other. “My name is Dick Lennox. I’m a mining engineer,
and any time I can be of service to you, why——But who am I indebted
to? What is your name?”

“There’ll be a doctor out here in an hour. You kin trust him. If
you’ll hang the bridle rein over the horn of the saddle, she’ll come
back to me. Mollie, git a-goin’!” he added, slapping the animal on
the flanks.

A few minutes later, when Detective Coates came out to turn the
horse into the field, after he and his partner had carried Lennox
into the house, he found it gone. In the distance, toward
Geerusalem, he heard it galloping along, and concluded that, in
obedience to its natural instincts, it was returning home.


CHAPTER XVI—THE HAND OF QUINTELL

The Lennox episode threw the forces that governed Geerusalem into a
vengeful attitude, not unmixed with doubt, and set working the
stealthy brotherhood under Big George Rankin to ascertain who had
aided the mining engineer, not only in escaping assassination and
mysteriously disappearing, but in killing four of the element’s most
daring and dependable gunmen. But far-reaching and thorough though
the investigation proved, not the least light was shed on the
matter. All that there seemed to be to the incident was that the
four had been found dead on the road, near the mouth of Geerusalem
Gulch, a hundred yards or more from a deserted cabin, and that
Lennox, unarmed, according to the statement of the man who had given
him temporary refuge in his office, had got away.

What gave the occurrence a sinister aspect and set the Quintell gang
guessing, was the fact that this was the first time a plot of theirs
had miscarried, with such disastrous results—the first time their
assassins had been wiped out to the last man. Lennox, it was argued,
given guns and ammunition could not have possibly shot four men
without being killed. Besides, it was known that he was ignorant in
the use of firearms. He had received help then. Doubtless, he had
led the four into a trap to be slaughtered. By whom? Could it be
possible that the decent citizenry of the camp had organized, that
they had launched a secret war of extermination with a view of
shattering the power of the element? Was the Quintell dictatorship
threatened? These and other questions were discussed by the brains
of the camp’s control at a conference held in the Brokers’ Exchange
Building and laughed at by their big, arrogant leader.

“Let them organize!” he whipped out harshly, his hard eyes sweeping
the circle seated around the conference table. “Let them start
heckling the combination, if they think they’re lucky! We’ll take
them down the line! If they’re looking for blood we’ll swim the camp
in it. I’m handling the thing, see? We’re going to ascertain
conditions, then we’ll strike suddenly. They won’t have a chance.
The first matter to be cleared up is Lennox, the damned traitor
knows too much. He must be found and stopped. It’s worth five
thousand dollars to us to put him where he can’t talk. I have his
Pasadena home address, and men will leave on the night train to get
him, if he’s gone there. Others are investigating the scene of the
killing to see if they can pick up his trail. We’ll get him. We have
to get him, or he’ll get us. Once he begins spouting and that
moss-back grand jury begins digging around up here, we may as well
begin jumping into Mexico.”

At the conclusion of the meeting and just as his confederates were
preparing to depart, Quintell said:

“Huntington has returned home, and the two railroad detectives are
in camp with their baggage. I’ve been informed by the Western Union
night operator they were wired to return to Los Angeles. Huntington
is alone at the ranch. That means, the ranch is ours. I’ll have the
quit-claim by midnight to-night. In the morning, Rankin will rush a
bunch of men out there to attend to Peter Boyd and Jerome Liggs. By
the way, does anybody know where Huntington’s daughter is staying in
Frisco? Well, no matter. I’ll find out. If the old bum don’t come
through decent, he gets the limit. The new strike, gentlemen, is as
good as ours.”

When they were gone, Quintell sat back in his swivel chair and began
glancing through a fistful of that day’s mail. He halted over one
letter, frowned at it a moment, and pressed the buzzer under the
edge of his desk. That letter bore the signature: “Lex Sangerly,
Division Superintendent, M. & S. R. R. Co.”

The door leading into the outer offices opened, and a tall
hawk-eyed, middle-aged man entered. He came forward with long,
noiseless strides, watching his employer over his glasses.

“Harrison, how about this?” snapped Quintell, handing over
Sangerly’s letter to the other. “The date! Look at the date! It’s
ten days since we received——”

“Permit me, Mr. Quintell,” broke in Harrison suavely. “You
instructed me to file it, pending receipt of certificates of record
from the county recorder, if you will remember. They came to-day,
sir. The surveyors will complete their work this afternoon, I
understand. In fact, the only thing remaining to be done is to draw
up papers of incorporation of the Lucky Boy Placer Company, if that
is the name you have decided on for the group.”

“Draw them up immediately! Rush them through! That name will do as
well as any other. On your way out, send me in a stenographer to
take dictation.”

“Pardon, Mr. Quintell.” The man hesitated. “But if you intend to
answer Mr. Sangerly’s letter—er—you were in conference, sir, and I
wouldn’t disturb you. He’s out there, waiting to speak with you.”

The other stared, then rose slowly to his feet. “Sangerly? Are you
sure?”

“Yes, sir. Division superintendent of the——”

A curse broke from Quintell. He stood with his powerful hands
resting on the desk, his penetrating coal-black eyes playing slowly
over the room for a few moments.

“I want them to find gold on the Lucky Boy, Harrison, understand?”
he said in low, harsh tones, gazing intently at the man. “I want you
to go out there this evening, see? You know the vicinity of the
proposed right of way. Salt it! The thing must be done thoroughly,
cleverly. Salt it, in patches, on either side of the bench marks.
Mark those patches. When I take Sangerly out there in the morning,
you come along with us. It’ll be up to you to take samples of the
ground. Those samples must wash gold, understand?

“I’m leaving this matter to you, Harrison. If we put over this deal
you get a thousand-dollar bonus and a substantial salary increase.
But there must be no slip. When you do business with a railroad
company you’re going against the real thing. Remember that! They’ve
got the dough and they’re wise as hell.” He turned abruptly and,
going over to a large safe on the opposite side of the room, took
from its interior a wide-mouthed bottle containing several ounces of
placer gold. “Here’s your salt. Use it all if you have to, but make
a good job of it,” he added, giving Harrison the bottle. “You have
your instructions. See that you follow them. Now, show him in.”

The man bowed respectfully and left the room.

Lex Sangerly, in obedience to a telegram received from his father,
had left San Francisco hurriedly and arrived in Geerusalem that
morning. Motoring out to the Huntington ranch, he found Coates and
Tyler preparing to leave for the south, temporarily called away from
the Billy Gee chase to take up some work of more immediate
importance. Lex had a long talk with Lennox, as the latter lay
stretched out in bed, his leg in a plaster cast, and from what the
mining engineer told him, concluded that far from exaggerating the
ruthlessness and power of the Quintell combination, Mrs. Liggs, in
her warning to him had quite obviously given him but the barest
glimpse of existing conditions. Lemuel, attired in a rakishly-cut
corduroy suit and the best that money could buy in buckled boots,
smoked his cigar with amazing dignity and talked cattle raising with
Lex, like the owner of ten thousand herds.

Driving the two detectives to camp, Sangerly bade them good-by and
steered his roadster up through the jam of traffic to the Brokers’
Exchange Building. Now, at Harrison’s invitation, he entered
Quintell’s inner office and waited, while the boss of Geerusalem,
without deigning his visitor so much as a glance, finished perusing
his mail. He sat back finally and trained his piercing, black eyes
on the other.

“Mr. Sangerly, I presume,” he began, with cold business courtesy,
and paused awkwardly as he recognized in his caller the stranger
with whom he had collided on the sidewalk in front of Mrs. Liggs’
store one evening some weeks before.

He got up out of his chair now and approached Lex, smiling
deprecatingly, his hand extended.

“Mr. Sangerly, I owe you my humblest apology as regards my rude
behavior on the occasion of our first meeting. I have worried
considerably about it and have made inquiries in an effort to learn
your name and whereabouts. The fact that I had been drinking does
not, of course, excuse my conduct. However, I sincerely hope you
will forgive me for insulting you as I did. I am extremely sorry,
sir.”

“The incident is past and, so far as I am concerned, forgotten, Mr.
Quintell,” said Lex pleasantly. “I, in turn, am sorry that you let
it bother you for, to be candid, I haven’t given it a second
thought.”

Quintell drew up a chair before his desk, motioned the other into
it, and resumed his own. He brought out a box of choice cigars and
held a lighted match for his visitor.

“You doubtless surmise my errand, Mr. Quintell,” said Lex presently.
“It is in relation to——”

“For the second time, I must ask you to bear with me,” broke in
Quintell, picking up the letter he had discussed with Harrison.
“Through a regrettable oversight on the part of my secretary, your
communication was not called to my attention until fifteen mintes
ago. You should have had an answer a week since.”

“It hardly matters. I have been away from the office since I wrote
you,” said Lex and added: “To get down to business, Mr. Quintell, I
see that your surveyors are going ahead, that you seem disposed to
block construction of a branch line into Geerusalem.”

“Discourage the coming of the railroad!” burst out the other. “Why,
Mr. Sangerly, I’m not altogether a madman! I want the railroad. The
camp is a unit for it. It spells progress, greater industry, greater
opportunity!”

Lex nodded. “My father, who is Western manager of the road,
instructed me to speak with you quite plainly on the matter. To
begin, every landowner along the entire fifty-three miles of
proposed line, from the station of Mirage to Geerusalem, has granted
us the privilege of a right of way for the asking. Coöperation has
been extended to us on every hand. We were encouraged and we
proceeded with construction. Almost twenty miles of track have been
laid out of Mirage.

“To-day, at this end, we are confronted with a situation that, were
it not so grave in its ultimate results, would be ridiculous to a
degree. I refer to that old, abandoned group of claims—the Lucky Boy
group, I believe you called them in your letter—which has suddenly
come to life. As we both know, they are located across the mouth of
Geerusalem Gulch, boasting as their only improvements a dilapidated
twelve-foot-square shack. We have learned that you and seven other
men have quite recently filed on these claims, as placer ground.
Since the proposed branch must cross this ground of yours to reach
the terminal site here in camp, we assume your action was taken with
the deliberate intention of making us come to you. Now, the point
is, Mr. Quintell, do you gentlemen propose to grant us the same
right of way privileges we have been receiving, or are you simply
out to hold us up?”

It was a blunt question, but Quintell laughed it away in his gayest
manner.

“My dear Mr. Sangerly, you are utterly in error. You don’t seem to
view the situation from the right angle. In much the same way, not
being a railroad man, I myself cannot fully appreciate your method
of reasoning. Just for instance, what would you say if I told you
that the Lucky Boy group is perhaps one of the richest placer-gold
deposits discovered in California in the last twenty years?”

He had risen and was standing before his visitor, his hands thrust
into his pockets, his shrewd eyes fixed on Lex.

“Of course,” he qualified impressively, “when I say richest, please
don’t mistake my meaning. Indications on the surface are such as to
leave no doubt that gold is present in enormous quantities. This,
Mr. Sangerly, is an actual fact. Moreover, I will prove the truth of
my statement whenever it suits your convenience.”

Lex regarded him in silence for some seconds. “How long since you
made this discovery?” he asked at last.

“About two weeks ago. We’ve been keeping it quiet—which is a hard
thing to do in a mining camp. We’ve had men looking up the records
to be certain that we were not going up against a hang-fire title
and subsequent litigation. To-morrow we intend to plaster the front
pages of the newspapers with the story. Armed guards will be placed
on the property to protect it from claim jumpers.” He paused,
dropped back into his chair, and nursed one knee in his hands. “So,
Mr. Sangerly, you surely must appreciate our reluctance in complying
with your company’s request for permission to lay tracks across this
ground. It is far too valuable, we believe. Frankly, it is a
question of money with us, and you can scarcely criticize us if we
regard the matter from a purely financial standpoint. But to say
that we are deliberately trying to hold your people up, that
statement, Mr. Sangerly, is both uncalled for and unkind.”

Lex lit his cigar thoughtfully. He frowned at the elaborate rug at
his feet. Quintell watched him intently.

“Of course, if my company desired a right of way over the Lucky Boy
group badly enough you would grant it the privilege of purchase—for
a reasonable figure?” said Lex presently. “You just stated that the
railroad would prove a big asset to the camp.”

“In view of the fact that my partners and myself have interests here
that would be indirectly benefited by better transportation
facilities, yes, we would be glad to consider such a purchase. You
must understand, Mr. Sangerly, that we have no fight with your
company. The whole thing is a cold business proposition. If you know
the difference between lode and placer mining you must realize that
the latter’s workable area is strictly surface. Such being the case,
a railroad bed passing over gold-bearing gravel——”

“Approximately, what would it stand us to get a single-track right
of way over this ground, Mr. Quintell? I would like to wire
immediate word to my people,” broke in Lex.

The other rubbed his heavy chin thoughtfully. “The price would have
to be based on the valuation per cubic yard of pay dirt over which
the roadbed must of necessity have to pass. This strip, as you can
readily see, would be lost to development; we could not work it.
Samples of the gravel would be taken and a thorough assayer’s test
made to ascertain its average gold-bearing value. On the whole, Mr.
Sangerly, we want only what is legitimately coming to us—no more, no
less.”

Lex rose to go. “In my opinion, you should encourage the
construction of this branch line rather than place an obstacle in
the way of its building. At best it is only a venture, depending
entirely on the continued prosperity of Geerusalem, and it is
costing more per mile than any strip of road the company has laid in
years. I’d like to look over this placer ground, Mr. Quintell—that
is, take samples of the gravel. When would it be convenient for you
to accompany me?”

“I was about to suggest that you come here about—say, ten o’clock,
to-morrow morning. A party of us are motoring down there, and I’d be
happy to have you join us,” said Quintell genially, getting to his
feet. “Allow me also to extend to you the hospitality of my home
while you are here, Mr. Sangerly. The hotels are abominable. I have
a modern little bungalow, an extra room, and all the city’s
conveniences—including a Japanese chef, who is really a culinary
artist.” He laughed.

“That’s indeed a tempting invitation, and I’d snap it up if it
weren’t for the fact that I’m pretty comfortably established at the
Huntington ranch,” said Lex.

Quintell’s black eyes opened in genuine surprise. “Well! So you’re a
friend of old Lem’s, too? There’s a corking fine type of Westerner
for you, Sangerly. Too bad it’s dying out, going the way of the
traditional hospitality of the West. While I think of it, how is
Miss Dot getting on?”

“Remarkably well. She has taken up a number of special summer
courses at the University of California and is forging right ahead.”
Lex paused and added with a smile: “She’s bent on immortalizing
Geerusalem and Soapweed Plains. She’s writing a novel.”

“A novel?” echoed Quintell, interested.

“Nothing less, and on no more romantic a personage than Billy Gee,
the bandit. There are other notables in the story, for instance,
yourself, myself, the wildcat bunch, Mrs. Agatha Liggs, who used to
keep the little dry-goods store, Sheriff Warburton, and a lot of
others. I’ll wager she’ll dispose of five thousand copies in this
section alone. Besides, it is quite probable my company will
purchase several thousand for advertising purposes.”

Quintell looked pleased. “She can count on me for five hundred; you
may tell Lem that. Your mention of Mrs. Liggs reminds me—do you
happen to know if she’s related to a Jerome Liggs?”

Lex stopped in the act of putting on his hat. The other was quick to
note the odd look that came into his eyes.

“Jerome was her son,” he said slowly. “Why do you ask? I’m just a
little curious.”

“Do you mean that he’s dead? You said—_was_ her son?” countered
Quintell adroitly. But his manner was plainly skeptical, and Lex saw
it.

“That is what I’ve been told. It isn’t possible that you’ve heard——”

“Oh, no! Some days ago I happened to run across an old transaction
in which his name appeared. There was a sum of money
involved—nothing to speak of, though,” lied Quintell glibly.

But Sangerly did not believe him. As he walked out of the Brokers’
Exchange Building, he reviewed the matter in his mind and decided to
reopen the subject with Quintell in the morning. Could Mrs. Liggs
have deceived him regarding Jerome’s death? Could it really be that
she had deliberately lied—Mrs. Liggs, the most upstanding, the best
little woman he had ever known? He would not allow himself to
believe it. The very thought was a sacrilege. And yet he remembered
now that she had never so much as mentioned Jerome’s name, since the
day he met her at the store, when, seated in the living room, he had
inquired after his boyhood chum. Indeed, now that he recalled that
meeting, it did seem as if she had acted strangely and that she had
scarcely referred to her son as a bereaved mother would; and if any
mother ever loved her son, it was Mrs. Liggs.

Thinking thus, he made his way down the crowded street to the
Miners’ Hotel, called for his mail, and arranged with Merriman, the
proprietor, to hold his room for him as headquarters for railroad
officials who would visit the camp from time to time. As he turned
to walk out of the hotel office, a copy of that afternoon’s
_Searchlight_ lying on the desk caught his eye. He glanced at it
idly, then stared; and his bewilderment grew as he read the double
column of black-face type, announcing what was reported to be a
rumor that Tinnemaha Pete Boyd and Jerome Liggs, prospectors, had
made the sensational gold strike of the year. The account,
conforming with the style so popular among certain newspapers to
swell their sales, was staggering to the eye but hazy as to details,
and merely hinted that the new bonanza was situated in a range
southwest of camp.

Now, while the coincidental appearance of the name of the man of
whom he had just been thinking, dumfounded Lex for the moment, it
had a diametrically opposite effect on Jule Quintell when he saw it.

Following Sangerly’s departure, the boss of Geerusalem had settled
back in his chair and fallen into moody reflection.

“It just might be that this old fossil, Tinnemaha Pete, entered the
son’s name in those claim notices, instead of the mother’s,” he
muttered to himself. “Sangerly says he’s dead, and he spoke as if he
knew. Well, nothing like being sure.” He reached for a pencil and
pad and wrote:

  Jerome Liggs, wanted for robbery of Marysville city treasury three
  years ago, is operating claims on Lemuel Huntington ranch near
  Geerusalem.

Leaving the note unsigned he read it over grimly and rang for
Harrison. That individual came bolting into the room almost
instantly, carrying in one outflung hand a copy of the _Searchlight_
and banging the door after him.

“McQuaid’s spilled the beans!” he cried. “Look at this, sir! He
published the story of the strike—the Huntington ranch story, sir!”

Quintell glared at his secretary in unbelief; then his big body
stiffened, and his face purpled with rage. He tore the paper from
the other’s grasp and skimmed through the account with flaming eyes.
A frightful oath burst from him.

“Damn him! The bonehead! Another traitor!” he sputtered savagely.
“I’ll teach the fool a lesson. He’ll pay for this——” He snatched the
receiver off the telephone and called up the _Searchlight_ editorial
rooms. A man’s voice answered presently.

“Hello! This you, McQuaid?”

“Mr. McQuaid is no longer here. Is there anything I can do——”

“What do you mean—no longer there? Say, who is this talking? I said,
McQuaid—the editor. Tell him Quintell wants him.”

“I got you the first time, friend,” was the quiet reply. “Mr.
McQuaid sold out this morning. The _Searchlight_ is under new
management.”

Quintell took a slow breath. His rage cooled. “This is rather
unexpected news. I wasn’t prepared for it. May I ask who bought him
out?”

“Los Angeles people. We are reorganizing the paper, making a change
in policy, and all that sort of thing.”

“I see,” said Quintell and added: “Is there any truth to that Boyd
and Liggs gold-strike story? I see you’ve featured it.”

“Why, we’re trying to verify the report. I’d say it looks the
goods.”

Quintell chuckled, but his eyes were smoldering venomously. “Who
started the rumor—got any idea?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Quintell, but we do not divulge our sources of
information,” said the other.

“Oh, certainly—certainly. Beg pardon. I should have known better. I
assume you’re the new editor?”

“Yes—Babcock. I have heard a lot about you, Mr. Quintell, and hope
to have the pleasure of meeting you——”

“The pleasure will be mutual, Mr. Babcock,” said Quintell
significantly, as he hung up.

For some moments the boss of Geerusalem sat motionless, his gaze
riveted on that prominently displayed first-page story which he and
his confederates had guarded so carefully for weeks past against
circulation, while they bided their time until Lemuel Huntington
should return to the solitude of his ranch and, under the influence
of their power, be forced to part with his holdings. Quintell knew
positively that whoever tipped the story off to the _Searchlight’s_
new management was well aware that the strike was on Huntington’s
land. An attempt to verify the rumor would result, Quintell was
certain, in the location of the bonanza and all the details
appearing, possibly in the very next issue of this paper over which
he and his gang had, with mysterious suddenness, lost all control.
Huntington would see the account, public attention would be focused
on the Huntington ranch, and Quintell & Co. would have to pay a
fancy price if they hoped to acquire the property.

Following a short interval of black reflection, Quintell sprang out
of his chair and stormed about his office. Harrison stood, toying
nervously with a pencil, watching his master.

“McQuaid sold us out—the rat!” roared the broker. “He had the
details. He got his price and crossed us, the cur! Jumped out of
camp before we could——”

“He may not have, sir,” interrupted the secretary suavely. “McQuaid
never impressed me as being that type.”

“No? Who, then? Who, then? These prospectors, who have no legal
rights? What a chance!”

“You forget, Mr. Quintell, that Dick Lennox also knew, and he evaded
capture.”

The other stopped in his furious pacing and wheeled, fastening his
penetrating black eyes on Harrison. He started to speak, then
changed his mind. His lips parted in a cold, triumphant smile.

“If Lennox is still in the country I’ll know it in half an hour,” he
said at last. “Wherever he is, I’ll know. I should have thought of
this before—fool, that I am!” He strode over to his desk, picked up
the unsigned note he had written, and handed it to the secretary.
“Here, wire this to Sheriff Warburton, at the county seat! See that
it can’t be traced back to us. Get Rankin up here as soon as you
can. This cocky new editor will never print the verification of that
story, Harrison. You can gamble on that! And listen: Don’t forget
that little job you have at the Lucky Boy to-night. I’m driving out
to Huntington’s around eight and I’ll be coming away from there not
later than nine thirty. If you’ll wait for me I’ll pick you up on my
way in. We’re putting over these two propositions,
Harrison—possession of the new strike claims and sale of the Lucky
Boy group—if we have to go to hell to do it.”

“I quite agree with you, sir,” said the other as he left the room.

True to his boast, half an hour afterward—following a brief talk
with the town constable over the telephone—Quintell got proof that
Lennox was in hiding in the district. The official reported in
person to say that, as the broker had suggested, he had gone to the
post office and, representing that Lennox was being investigated in
connection with a felony charge and that he wished to ascertain the
fellow’s whereabouts, had learned from the postmaster that the
mining engineer’s mail had been turned over to Lex Sangerly that
very afternoon, on presentation by the latter of a written request
signed by Lennox.

Since Sangerly had told him that he was staying at the Huntington
ranch, Quintell decided that it was the logical place to look for
the man who had betrayed the confidence of the gang.


CHAPTER XVII—ONE SILENT NIGHT

On the evening that Sheriff Warburton left Tinnemaha Pete slumbering
beside the camp fire at Blue Mud Spring and rode off for the
Huntington ranch, Lemuel prepared supper early for himself and
Lennox in order that he might have as much time as possible to
devote to the laborious task of writing Dot a letter.

In a large pantry off the kitchen, which prior to Lennox’s coming
had served as a storeroom, the mining engineer lay on a cot,
helpless; his broken leg was mending as rapidly as could be
expected, according to the doctor who had made his clandestine
visits under cover of darkness.

Around sundown, Lex Sangerly had returned from Geerusalem, following
his talk with Quintell, and stopping long enough to leave the mail,
motored away to the railroad construction camp, thirty miles
distant, declaring he would not be back until late.

So, after he had washed the dishes, Lemuel began elaborate
preparations, calculated to usher in becomingly his penmanship
ordeal. He trimmed the tall kitchen-table lamp, polished its chimney
carefully, got out a writing tablet, envelope, pen and ink, filled
and lighted his pipe, rolled up his sleeves, and finally squared
himself firmly before the table and started, after a long interval
of painful reflection.

He had so much to tell Dot. He must notify her that Lex was making
the ranch his headquarters; that Dick Lennox was there also, after
nearly having been killed by the Quintell gang; that the Geerusalem
branch of the Mohave & Southwestern was due to pass in front of the
ranch-house door; that he had sold four tons of alfalfa; that her
pet cow, Bess, was a proud mother, and that he had collected
forty-three eggs that day.

After considerable feinting with the pen, he got under way. It was a
warm, quiet night. The pen scratched and scratched hesitatingly. The
patient old clock on the wall tick-ticked on and on tirelessly. A
contented bullfrog out in the cool garden began a hoarse pæan, a
dedication to the silence, and broke off midway in a measure. Lemuel
finished his second page, then sat back and fired his pipe. With a
critical eye, he read what he had written:

  Geerusalem, Aug. 29.

  My own deares dorter: I jest got yore welcom leter an was orful
  glad to heer you bin doin so fine in skule. Lex Sangerly he tol me
  all about you givin him the $20,000. I allus knowed you was as
  hones as the day is long, sweethart, an I tol him so an he sed you
  sure was the fines gal he ever seen. An I sed they didn make em no
  better, an I was proud of you. You orter herd us. You sure wood
  a-bin stuck on yoreself. But lissen, honey, an I want that you
  should bare in mind that bein yore ol dad Im allus lookin out for
  yore interes. An that is, you gotter fergit this Billy Gee galoot.
  I dont know why he give you that money xcept that Sangerly sez it
  was to help us out. But you gotter figger hes a outlaw, an aint no
  good nohow. So help me Moses, if I git another chanct at him I
  sure will drag him off to the calaboose.

Grinning proudly, Lemuel picked up his pen again, dipped it in the
ink, and started on his third page. Then he stopped. The kitchen
doorknob was squeaking. He stared at it and saw to his dismay that
it was moving. Some hand was trying it. His heart quickened
suddenly. He remembered that he had not turned the key!

It was some distance to the door; but his rifle stood in the corner,
just out of reach. He slid cautiously out of his chair to get the
weapon. At that very moment, however, the door had opened and
closed, and a man stood in the room, his six-shooter covering
Lemuel.

“Pull down the shades, Huntington! Git a hustle on you!” the
intruder commanded quietly, as he locked the door.

The rancher gazed at him, horror growing in his eyes. His visitor
was Billy Gee! Arrived at last was the hour he had so long dreaded,
though he had believed it indefinitely postponed; for he had been
certain the outlaw would hesitate to make an overt move against him
while Lennox and Sangerly were there. But his Nemesis had come, and
now Lemuel vividly recalled the fellow’s dire threat, made on that
eventful morning in Warburton’s room in Geerusalem. He grew faint
with terror and, trembling violently, lost no time in obeying the
other’s order.

“Now, sit down!” directed Billy Gee. He waited until Lemuel slumped
weakly into his seat, then he drew up a chair to the opposite side
of the table, holstered his gun and, his eyes never leaving the
rancher’s face, got out the makings and flipped a cigarette
together.

Lemuel watched him in fearful fascination, trying to fathom his
intentions, hoping in vain that by some means, Lennox, helpless
though he was in the grip of the plaster cast, might rescue him from
his awful predicament. After a moment, it began to dawn on him that
Billy Gee was not displaying those evidences of rage and hatred that
he felt certain should forecast revenge. In fact, he thought the
outlaw seemed friendly, notwithstanding the steely glitter in his
eyes. At any rate, he told himself, the fellow looked well-fed,
well-groomed, handsome indeed, compared to that wan, hollow-eyed,
half-dead wretch he had delivered to Bob Warburton on that
never-to-be-forgotten morning.

“What’re you shakin’ about?” asked Billy Gee presently. “I had an
idea you was gritty, the way you acted that time you herded me into
camp.” He showed his even teeth in a hard grin. “I promised I’d make
you pay, Huntington. You remember that? I ain’t forgot it, but I
ain’t ready yet. I jest dropped in to have a quiet leetle chat with
you. I see Lex Sangerly is stoppin’ here with you, an’ the minin’
engineer, Lennox. How’s he gettin’ along?”

“He—what d’you want? I’m busy. I’m—I’m writin’,” burst out Lemuel
nervously.

“I hear Miss Dot is doin’ fine at the university,” said the other,
with a glance at the letter. “I wish you’d give her my best
reegards. You sure got a lady for a daughter, Huntington, an’ it
ain’t from yore side of the fam’ly either.”

A short, painful silence fell. Billy Gee’s glance wandered to the
storeroom where Lennox lay.

“Grab the lamp! I want to see how he’s makin’ out,” he said, rising
to his feet as he spoke.

Preceded by Lemuel bearing the light, he crossed the kitchen and
entered the little room. Halting beside the cot he smiled down at
its occupant.

“Hello, pard! How’re you feelin’?”

Lennox regarded him curiously a moment, then grinned. “You’re the
man who saved my life, aren’t you? I’m feeling better than I did
that night. My leg is knitting, but it’s hell lying here.”

“It sure must be. I reckon you’ll come out all right, though. Say,
I’d lay poorty low if I was you! The Quintell bunch’s after you, red
hot.”

“But why?” argued Lennox. “I’m not in Geerusalem. They’ve run me
out. I’ve quit.”

Billy Gee nodded. “That’s jest it. They’re skeert you’ll talk. You
know too much about their leetle game. I got the straight tip.
They’re set on gettin’ you.”

Alarm crept into the other’s face. “And I’m flat on my back, unable
to protect myself. That’s certainly cheerful news.”

“Sorry, I couldn’t give you nothin’ better,” said Billy Gee simply.
Some moments later he turned to leave the room. “Me and Huntington’s
got business together if you’ll excuse us. Hope you’ll come out all
right.”

Once back in the kitchen, the table between them, the outlaw studied
Lemuel speculatively for a few seconds.

“What did them two railroad detectives do the night I rambled off in
their automobile? Sorter jolted ’em, didn’t it?” he asked finally.

“They didn’t do nothin’. They was sore, of course, an’ started
quarrelin’ among themselves. I s’pose you knowed they left here
to-day?” Lemuel paused and added: “I—I oughter mebby thank you for
doin’ me a favor. They was goin’ to arrest me.”

Billy Gee laughed softly. “I heerd ’em gabbin’ about it. Miss Dot
turned the money back to Lex Sangerly, didn’t she? I’m glad she
did—now.” He shifted in his chair, placed his elbows on the table,
and covered the rancher with an intense look. “I come to ask a favor
off o’ you, Huntington. It ain’t a favor either. You owe it to me. I
give you yore start, so to speak. You made ten thousand dollars off
o’ me—sold me like you would one of yore cows. I’ll never forget
that. You’re goin’ to pay heavy for it some o’ these days. See if
you don’t! Right now I’m askin’ what’s part mine, savvy? I want you
to give Tinnemaha Pete a deed o’ gift to that hill on the far end of
the ranch.”

Lemuel sat bolt upright, then a hoarse exclamation burst from him.
He paled through his sunburn. “Good Lord, man! You don’t aim to take
the leetle I got?” he choked.

“If that hill was bringin’ you in anythin’, I wouldn’t ask it,
Huntington—bad as I’d like to hurt you,” said Billy Gee evenly. “But
it ain’t. A steer’d starve to death for the grass that’s on it, and
you know it. Tinnemaha is lookin’ to do some prospectin’ an’ he
don’t figger to deevelop another man’s property. He’ll be here to
see you to-morrow or nex’ day. An’ you see that you give him a deed,
see, or—well, I’ll be back, you kin gamble on that!”

“But can’t you see, I got two full quarter sections, an’ cuttin’ off
that strip’ll ruin ’em?” cried Lemuel, in desperation. “An’ there’s
my poor, leetle gal tryin’ to git a edjucation, an’——”

“Miss Dot’ll manage fine an’ dandy, I reckon,” asserted the bandit.
“I hear she’s livin’ with Mrs. Liggs, an’ I don’t know of a better
woman in the world than her. Mind what I’m a-tellin’ you,
Huntington! You give ol’ Tinnemaha Pete a quit-claim title to that
there hill, an’ don’t lose no time doin’ it. D’you understand? I’m
goin’ to keep cases on you, an’ if I find out you ain’t done it, God
help you!”

He broke off short and flapped his hat suddenly at the lamp,
plunging the kitchen in darkness. His trained ear had caught a sound
outside the house. The next instant he had flitted around the table
and was standing over Lemuel.

“Don’t move! Don’t answer, no matter what!” he whispered into the
rancher’s ear.

Approaching from the direction of Geerusalem, now came the gentle
purring of an automobile. Lemuel in the grip of mixed emotions
waited breathlessly. He waited for Billy Gee to speak. He was not
sure where the outlaw was. He strained his ears through the
darkness, listening. The machine came to a stop before the ranch.
That could not be Sangerly, he knew. Who then? Ah, the doctor!

“You’d better git outside if you’re goin’ to do any shootin’,”
Lemuel said in subdued tones, addressing the gloom. “That’s Doc
Porter comin’ to see Lennox. Don’t go to killin’ him.”

There was no reply.

Heavy footfalls sounded on the kitchen porch. They stopped and went
suddenly blundering down the back steps and on through the garden,
bound for the front of the house. A revolver began roaring savagely;
a strident voice boomed on the night, commanding a halt. Lemuel
reached out a cautious hand for the outlaw, feeling for him, but
found he was no longer standing beside him. He sprang to his feet,
then caught up his rifle out of the corner, and groped his way
toward the front door.

“Mr. Huntington, what was that? Is that them after me? Huntington,
are you—— Give me a gun, man! Don’t let me die like a rat,” cried
Lennox wildly, his voice ringing through the house.

“Rat, be damned!” called back Lemuel. “It’s the bandit friend of
yourn I’m after. The skunk! Here’s where he gits what’s a-comin’ to
him.”

He charged along the dark hall and got to the front door. It stood
wide open. Billy Gee had fled. Halting undecidedly on the threshold,
his rifle held ready, Lemuel glared about. The automobile stood at
the gate, its headlights blazing. He heard the man of the heavy
footfalls plunging down the gravel walk, then his harsh,
authoritative tones.

“Stick up yore hands, in the name of the law! Up with ’em, I said,
or I’ll blow you to kingdom come!” A dramatic pause, then: “Now
march over to the house! Thought you could visit round free an’
easy, eh? Well, yore visitin’ days is about over, sport. Git a
hustle on you!”

“This is an outrage, officer. You’ve got the wrong man,” protested
the prisoner indignantly.

“Yeh? Well, we’ll see about that. You put it over pretty on the
train, kid, but you ain’t never doin’ it ag’in, let me tell you. If
you don’t shet yore face, I will. Hey, Lem! Make a light in there.
This is Bob Warburton.”

The sheriff, following the clew given him by Tinnemaha Pete—that
Billy Gee was at the Huntington ranch—had ridden direct from Blue
Mud Spring. Creeping onto the kitchen porch, he had heard the outlaw
and Lemuel talking. He had seen the light suddenly extinguished, and
had heard the approaching machine. Racing around the house, he had
caught sight of a man dodging into the gloom of the garden shrubbery
and had apprehended him.

Now, at the sheriff’s words, Lemuel hurried back into the kitchen
and lit the lamp. Presently Warburton appeared herding his captive
unceremoniously before him. Lemuel stared blankly at the latter, and
the official, giving him one look, burst into a torrent of curses.
His prisoner was Jule Quintell, pale, unnerved, but furious over the
rough reception he had received.

“Isn’t this rather cheap comedy for the sheriff of San Buenaventura
County to pull?” sneered the broker. His attitude was one of
contempt and defiance.

The sheriff, in the act of hurrying out to make a search of the
premises, wheeled, flushing with rage. “Say that ag’in, mister!” He
spoke in a voice that Lemuel, in the many years he had known him,
had never heard him use before.

“I’m Jule Quintell, of Geerusalem, Sheriff Warburton. I protest
emphatically against this sort of treatment,” began the man,
assuming an air of resentful dignity.

“Oh, you are! Well, let me tell you somepn, Quintell: You jest make
another crack like that, an’ see what happens. I’ve heerd you’re the
big I-am over in these parts,” continued Warburton, glowering at the
other. “An’ they tell me you got all kinds of pull. But don’t you
ever git in my way, Quintell. D’you understand?”

The broker extracted a cigarette from his dainty gold case. “That’s
more of an order than a threat, isn’t it, sheriff?” he asked coolly.

“You can find that out for yoreself,” retorted Warburton.

Quintell chuckled. “Very well, sheriff. Should the opportunity ever
present itself, I most certainly will make the test. Now, if you’ll
excuse me, I’d like to take up a small business matter with Mr.
Huntington here.” He turned toward Lemuel. “And how have you been,
Lem? I hear that Billy Gee is at large again. How unfortunate—after
you went to all the trouble and danger of capturing him!”

Warburton’s face flamed under the thrust. He opened his mouth to
speak, then closed it hard over his set teeth. Turning on his heel,
he walked out of the kitchen, gripping his six-shooter in a hand
that shook with rage.


CHAPTER XVIII—SKULKING SHADOWS

Meanwhile, Billy Gee had reached his horse tethered conveniently
near by and struck out across the plains. It was still early
evening, the sky thick-strewn with brilliant stars. He rode along
for a short distance, then stopped and listened for sounds of
pursuit. He waited for some time and, convincing himself that
Sheriff Warburton had not believed a night pursuit worth while, set
his course for Geerusalem. From the distant camp came the thunder of
stamp mills grinding loose the yellow treasure from the clinging
pulp. A foraging coyote, miles off, yelped dismally.

As he galloped on, Billy Gee laughed. Again he had outwitted the
doughty sheriff of San Buenaventura County. There was a reckless
pride in the thought. He felt the spur of hazard over the
achievement—an urge to do something rash for the mere pleasure of
doing it, to make those denizens of Soapweed Plains sit up and take
notice and marvel at his daringness. It was a consuming, impelling
fascination.

He gazed up at the stars. It was a “large” night out, he told
himself, and he felt fit as a fiddle. Yes, sir, he would ride into
Geerusalem and give it the once over, before returning to Blue Mud
Spring and the faithful companionship of old Tinnemaha Pete.

Anyway, he reflected complacently, he had arranged it so Tinnemaha
would get possession of the bonanza hill. Poor old Tinnemaha, his
one friend, had worked hard, slaved for what he had found. And they
were partners—partners of the richest ground in the district! In the
last two days they had uncovered a pay chute that the desertarian
vowed was rich beyond the conception of prospectordom. They would
sell the claims outright, fifty-fifty the money, and leave Soapweed
Plains forever.

There were a lot of fairer and more congenial climes to which he
himself could go. Sheriff Warburton would never let him alone, would
never stop until he had tracked him down and headed him for the
penitentiary. And yet, he was going straight now, had been going
straight ever since that wonderful night in the Huntington hayloft,
when Dot had called him a “poor, wounded wild animal.” Funny how he
had needed just that one little bit of interest from a girl to make
him change. He had promised her and he had made good, thanks to that
grand old wheel horse Tinnemaha Pete, and that grandest little
mother who stuck to him heroically, though he had blighted her life
with heartaches. He had been such a no-account cur these last three
years.

He reached the road, turned into it, and followed it, musing. He
recalled that his mother had written him that Dot was working on a
novel about Billy Gee. As he let his mind dwell on the thought, he
felt the blood warm in his veins. His heart beat faster. Yes, sir,
he decided, Dot must surely get an education—for was not an
education necessary to write books? He was pretty certain it was,
considering it was a painful piece of work for him to write so
common a thing as a letter. And there must be a girl in that novel.
Who was she? Did Billy Gee come wounded to the ranch, and was he
cared for by the girl friend of his mother? There was the arrival of
that persistent sheriff, Bob Warburton. And did the wonderful girl
hide the wounded bandit in her room?

From speculating thus, he presently became possessed with the desire
to see Dot. He wanted to hear her voice again, those musical tones
of hers that he had never forgotten. His being craved for the pity
she poured out to him, her splendid sympathy for him, her
understanding of him. Besides, he knew he could give her so many
interesting sidelights into Billy Gee’s career, that he was sure she
could use to advantage in her novel. For instance, how he had risked
two trips to San Francisco to inquire after her; how he had called
on his mother one night, while Dot was asleep, and confessed his
love for the girl; how he had met his boyhood chum, Lex Sangerly, on
the branch-road line of survey a few days ago, and conversed with
him for half an hour without being recognized; how he was keeping
his promise—going the straight and narrow for her sake.

The staccato sound of an open muffler in the distance back of him,
interrupted his trend of thought. He glanced over his shoulder and
saw the twin lights of an automobile coming from the direction of
the Huntington ranch. He was not certain whose car it was. Sangerly,
he knew, had driven toward Mirage at sundown, for he had been
watching from afar and had seen him go. He believed that the
oncoming car was the one which had stopped at the ranch while he was
making his escape. Doubtless Warburton, by some means or another,
had discovered the way he went and was seeking——No, that couldn’t be
it. More than likely, it was Warburton hurrying to camp to organize
a posse. That would be the average sheriff’s method of working;
never single-handed—always twenty to one, playing safe.

He looked ahead. He had reached the mouth of Geerusalem Gulch. A
mile or so away, a few scattered lights twinkled, indicating the
outskirts of the settlement. The old rock shack, where he had
rescued Lennox from the Quintell gunmen, lay within pistol-shot
distance. It was a little too far off to make it unobserved, for it
just might be that the powerful headlights of the approaching
machine would reveal him. He could not afford to take a chance.

Spurring out of the road, he steered for a thick patch of brush near
by. He brought his horse to a halt behind it, swung from the saddle,
and waited, screened by the heavy foliage. The machine came dashing
up the road. As it got abreast of the hiding place, it slowed down,
and the headlights were switched off.

Mystified, Billy Gee crouched low to the ground, watching the
blue-black sky line, and gripped his revolver. Presently he heard
the crunch of gravel underfoot. He saw the shadowlike figure of a
man pass stealthily over the wash and vanish into the gloom.

“That you, Mr. Quintell?” suddenly came the low voice of another
man, some distance away.

A curse broke from the newcomer. “You damn boob! Are you trying to
advertise this thing? Come over here!”

A short pause followed, broken only by the sound of footsteps
blundering over the rocky wash.

Quintell spoke again: “Is it all right? Did you do exactly as I
said—the width of two claims?”

“Yes, sir. But I’m not—I did the best I could about marking the
spots. It’s too dark to see, and a pile of stones might excite
suspicion. I was afraid to strike matches.”

“Did you use up all the dust? How many spots are there?”

“Twenty-two. Yes, I used it all. That ought to be enough for an
assay test, I’d imagine—taking a little from each, you understand. I
distributed it so as to lead one to conclude that the entire gulch
prospects.”

“Let’s see one of the spots,” said Quintell curtly. “This business
has to go through without a hitch. The slightest hesitation would
mean failure. He’d become suspicious. You’ll have to go about the
job of picking the test gravel naturally. Make it appear that you’re
doing it haphazardly.”

Billy Gee heard them moving about, and curious to ascertain more
concerning what he knew to be a deliberate “salting” of worthless
ground for the purpose of selling it to some tenderfoot, he crept
after them. Soon he had made his way to within a few yards of them.
They were fumbling among the boulders. The broker growled
impatiently and struck a match. He shielded it with his hands so
that the light flashed downward, showing a diminutive monument of
two rocks, one laid upon the other. The match went out.

“That’ll do fine,” muttered Quintell. “They’re all like that, are
they? Now, as I said, Harrison, you’re to take charge of the
samples. I might not be able to get word to you to-morrow. Follow
the right of way, as near as possible. That’ll be the first test.
The other can be taken from any part of the gulch. I’m not dead sure
of this fellow, see? I found out this afternoon that he’s been
making inquiries about Jerome Liggs. It may be that he’s wise to the
strike and that he’s after the Huntington ranch, as a side issue.
Just because he’s a railroad man, don’t mean that he’d pass up a
bonanza, by any means.”

“You saw Huntington, of course?” said Harrison. “I dare say you had
matters all your own way?”

“I certainly did not—damn him! He laughed at me. I offered him ten
thousand for his brush ranch—think of that!—and he fussed and
giggled, and ended finally by telling me that his daughter and he
had agreed not to sell. I’ve seen the time when the old devil would
have sold his soul for a copper penny, if he could have jammed his
girl through college. He’s got a few beans, to-day, and—by the way,
Harrison, she’s a fancy skirt, and I hear she’s writing a novel with
your Uncle Dudley as one of the characters. Believe me, I’m dropping
in on her the very next trip to Frisco! Nothing like evincing
interest, you know.

“At that, I might have put the screws to Huntington and forced the
sale, if it hadn’t been for Sheriff Warburton. He was there, the big
bonehead. He rambled in while I sat there, check book in hand, and
eyed me like something the cat dragged in. He hates me for fair.
Let’s get to camp. I’m starting the boys after Huntington. I’ve
given him his chance. Now he takes what he gets.”

Billy Gee, listening, heard the two men moving off toward the car,
and followed them cautiously through the darkness.

“The proper thing, sir,” agreed Harrison. “By the way, did you
ascertain if Lennox is stopping there?”

“I’m not certain. That will be for Rankin to find out. But here’s
the situation, so far as Warburton and Huntington are concerned: As
I was going into the ranch, Billy Gee, the bandit—he’s back in the
country—was coming out. I don’t know what he was doing—talking to
Huntington, I imagine. Warburton was snooping around the house after
him and nailed me instead of him. The point is, we’ll circulate the
news that Billy Gee was staying at the ranch—hiding out, you
understand. In other words, we’ll frame Huntington, make him out the
outlaw’s friend, and the long hairs of the camp won’t make a cheep
at the action of a vigilance committee. If we work it smoothly,
we’ll have them with us. Here comes a machine. Quick! Run! Follow
me!”

Speeding down the road from the direction of the settlement, the
lights of an automobile appeared, visible now and again over the
boulders and clumps of brush. Quintell and his secretary dashed for
their car, sprang in, and went careening off for camp. Billy Gee
stood and watched the two machines whirl by each other. He stood in
the grip of conflicting emotions. The broker’s insulting reference
to Dot had been sufficient in itself to whip him into a murderous
fury, but the very urge he had felt to kill the fellow on the spot
had been restrained by an overwhelming discovery which he had made a
moment before.

Just now, he gazed vaguely through the night after the tail light
disappearing in the gloom of Geerusalem Gulch. Presently he tore his
eyes away from it to look at the other machine. It was approaching
at moderate speed, bouncing and swaying over the rough road. Of a
sudden, as it went bowling past him, a girl’s silvery laughter smote
his ears. The sound electrified him. He caught his breath, and his
body stiffened like steel. He thought he could make out the forms of
two women in the rear seat; the man driving wore the regulation
chauffeur’s cap.

The machine whirled on, and for many minutes he stared after it,
until it was swallowed up in the darkness toward the Huntington
ranch. He roused himself finally. It must be _she_, and that was his
mother with her. But why had they come? His heart began singing
within him. He threw back his head and smiled up at the stars. It
was a “large” night out, sure enough; but there was nothing in
Geerusalem to attract him.

Then his mind turned to what he had just overheard between Quintell
and Harrison, and a low whistle broke from him as he realized the
vast importance of the information he possessed. “This powerful
rogue, Jule Quintell, was preparing to sell salted ground to the
Mohave & Southwestern Railroad Company. To rob that company—not
openly as he had done—but stealthily, perfidiously, under the guise
of fair dealing. To-night, Quintell proposed to crush Huntington
too, to drive Dot’s father out of the country—probably kill him, as
had been done to others. He wanted the Billy Geerusalem claims, did
he? So, Mister Quintell believed it would be as easy as all
that—simply a matter of taking over the ranch and ousting Tinnemaha
Pete and himself? After they had found this big bonanza, Quintell
intended grabbing it, eh?”

He walked over to his horse presently and mounted. He was chuckling
harshly. He held Jule Quintell in the hollow of his hand. The one
menace now was Sheriff Warburton. Yes, Warburton was a menace, but
there was a way of winning him over, the only way. He turned his
horse about and went spurring off through the darkness for Blue Mud
Spring.

That voice! That face he had glimpsed by the light of the match!

“It’s a large night out, believe me!” he muttered grimly.


CHAPTER XIX—AN ENEMY IN THE RANKS

This particular August evening was destined to be the most eventful
one in Lemuel Huntington’s life, for hardly had he recovered from
the shock occasioned by Billy Gee’s visit, ere he received a
glorious surprise—Dot’s unannounced arrival from San Francisco. She
came bounding into the house, followed by Mrs. Liggs, caught her
astonished father in an ecstatic embrace, stifled his ejaculations
with kisses, and told him breathlessly the reason for her return
home. Even Warburton, scowling and furious over the outlaw’s escape,
came in for his share of Dot’s effusiveness and forgot for the time
the responsibilities of his office.

It appeared that Mrs. Liggs having received a letter from Tinnemaha
Pete, containing the disturbing news that Sheriff Warburton was
again in the neighborhood, presumably searching for her son, that
loyal little mother after consulting with Dot decided on returning
to Soapweed Plains and, regardless of Billy Gee’s intentions to see
that his old friend obtained ultimate possession of the new gold
strike, try to persuade him to leave the country and take up his
residence with her in the metropolis. Since the trip would not
occupy longer than a week, Dot had made up her mind to go along—so
Mrs. Liggs would not be lonesome, she had said. Though the truth
was, she felt a consuming desire to meet and talk again with this
romantic hero of her girlish dreams, to see how he looked and acted
in the full flush of health, to find out if he had forgotten that
tragic day of his advent at the ranch. She was curious to know how
he would treat her, what he would say to her, and she secretly told
herself that, once having met him, she could bring back with her
certain happy memories which would do much to make her studies at
the university more apparently worth while. Besides, there was the
novel she was writing around this knight of Soapweed Plains, without
knowing just exactly his character.

But Dot said nothing of all this to her father. According to the
agreement she made with Mrs. Liggs, the girl simply told Lemuel that
the little old lady had some important business to transact in
Geerusalem, and that she, Dot, had taken advantage of the
opportunity to pay a visit home. She went on to say that Lemuel must
accompany them back to San Francisco. He must see the adorable
bungalow where she and Mrs. Liggs lived. Then he would have to spend
a day at the University of California, and—— Oh, he must hear what
she had written on her novel!

She talked on breathlessly, recounting her adventures, plying him
with questions. Lemuel listened, open-mouthed, replying vaguely, his
eyes brilliant with admiration. She looked queenly and so thoroughly
refined, he thought, and she was prettier and far more vivacious
than he had ever seen her before.

Once he leaned over and whispered into Sheriff Warburton’s ear:
“Bob, you notice them big words she’s slingin’? Hear ’em? That’s one
of ’em—conspicuously. That’s what edjucation does. Listen to that,
will you! Rattles ’em off, like nuthin’.”

It was an epochal homecoming. Until after midnight, Dot regaled them
with incidents and painted glowing pictures of San Francisco for
them. Around one o’clock, Sheriff Warburton suddenly recalled that
the unexpected arrival of the two women robbed him of his chances of
a bed for the night.

Reluctantly he struck out for his own blankets at Blue Mud Spring,
getting a little comfort out of the thought that, although Billy Gee
had eluded him, he would be able to grill Tinnemaha Pete on the
habits and the probable whereabouts of the bandit the first thing in
the morning. None the less gratifying was the fact that Mrs. Liggs
was back in the district, where he could reach her when he needed
her. Why had she returned, he wondered? Unquestionably, her presence
had to do with Billy Gee. But what? Well, no matter. He’d force it
out of Tinnemaha Pete. The old fellow would give him a
straightforward story, or go to jail. Too bad, but he, Warburton,
had to do his duty.

However, when Sheriff Warburton reached Blue Mud Spring, the camp
fire was ashes, stone cold, and Tinnemaha Pete and his pair of
burros were gone. Warburton looked back undecidedly through the
gloom of the cool desert night in the direction of the Huntington
ranch. After an interval, he dismounted, unsaddled his mule, spread
out his blankets on the ground, and turned in, cursing. Billy Gee
had outwitted him a second time. The third time was a charm, he told
himself as he dropped off to sleep.


Lex Sangerly, however, was not so fortunate as Warburton. He could
not compose himself to rest. Shortly after the sheriff left the
ranch, he had driven in from his trip to the railroad construction
camp and found Lemuel waiting up for him, entertaining Lennox with a
detailed account of Billy Gee’s career of crime. After relating to
Lex the stirring events of the night, including the unannounced
arrival of Dot and Mrs. Liggs, the rancher concluded with a
dissertation on the virtues of education as manifested by the ease
with which his daughter handled words, that he proudly declared were
“jaw-breakers” of an unusual type.

Just now, Lex lay in Lemuel’s bed and tossed about nervously in the
grip of disturbing thoughts. From the parlor lounge across the hall
came sonorous evidence of Huntington’s blissful state of mind,
rumbling rhythmically through the house. The night was tomblike.

Lex rehearsed again and again the talk he had had that afternoon
with Jule Quintell, and on the heels of this there paraded before
his mind’s eye the damaging information he had gathered against the
broker from confidential sources in Geerusalem. These had
substantiated all that he had heard heretofore, and briefly, went to
describe Quintell as a tricky, unscrupulous wildcatter, associated
with a coterie of other like gentry, polished crooks all, whose sole
aim was to fleece the unwary, and who exercised their power in camp
by their manipulation of the ruthless “stingaree” element and
control of the civil authorities.

This meant to Lex nothing less than that Quintell and his
placer-claim partners were banded together to make the Mohave &
Southwestern Company pay heavily for the privilege of laying its
tracks across their ground. In other words, the broker’s reference
to fabulous gold-bearing gravel existing in Geerusalem Gulch was
true, but owing to the fact only that the ground had been salted to
show the existence of gold. He had heard of many cases where
worthless mines had been sold by the employment of such tactics. Why
not in this instance? He was suspicious of the whole matter, and had
there been another likely approach into the camp, he would have
urged abandonment of the gulch route. But there was not.

The Quintell forces held the gates of Geerusalem, as it were. Though
his surmise might be correct that they were faking their
representations to make his company meet their demands, how could he
prove it? How could he find out that they had salted those claims?
They had doubtless done it cunningly, secretly, for proof of such an
act laid them liable to arrest and prosecution.

Complicating the situation still more was the telegram he had
received that same day from his father, directing that negotiations
with Quintell be hastened, and details as to terms wired at the
earliest possible moment. Quite the contrary, it seemed as if the
broker was sparring for time. He had stated that the valuation of
the ground to be covered by the right of way must be determined by
the content of gold per cubic yard of gravel occupied by the
roadbed. This meant assaying the gulch, and assaying took time. And
it followed that the richer the ground, the greater would be the
price demanded. Lex sensed the scheme and writhed at the realization
that he was powerless to frustrate it. The mining laws of California
favored the owner who could show mineral in paying quantities.

His gloomy reflections were startlingly interrupted by a violent
pounding on the front door. Of a sudden, the silent night roared out
with a bedlam of men’s voices. From the rear of the house came the
crack of a revolver, the crash of glass from one of the kitchen
windows, Lennox’s terrified cry.

Lex sprang out of bed, pulled a curtain aside, and peered into the
darkness. The porch was jammed with men. He could hear the hurried
tramp of boots on the driveway leading to the barn, the blows of an
ax wielded on the barn door, breaking its padlock. The pounding at
the front of the house was resumed, accompanied by kicks.

“Huntington, open up or we’ll bust her in!” shouted a man, with an
oath.

Lex groped about for matches and lighted a lamp. “Hold on there a
minute!” he yelled back. He began hurrying into his clothes. A
strange nervousness seized him. Vigilantes—a mob—had crept up and
surrounded the place. They had come to exact some tribute, to wreak
vengeance, to enforce summary justice. Which, and on whom? He heard
Dot’s voice in the hall, vibrant and fearless.

“What do you want?”

“Bust down the door!” chorused the crowd.

“We want the man who’s been befriending Billy Gee,” cried the first
speaker. “Are you opening this door or do we break it in?”

At this juncture Lex stepped into the hall. Lemuel stood half
dressed, pale with fright, holding a candle in one trembling hand.
Dot, clad in a dressing gown, her thick, wavy hair tumbled
charmingly over her shoulders, her eyes glinting with a strange
fire, was standing before the door, firmly gripping a six-shooter.
Huddled up against the wall, some distance back, was Mrs. Liggs
wringing her thin hands distractedly.

“The man who tries to come in here, dies! Do you understand that?”
called out the girl in harsh tones.

A wild jeer went up. The mob howled for action, and heavy shoulders
started heaving against the panels. Dot fired. The bullet tore
through the lintel, whined spitefully over the heads of the crowd.

“Atta boy! Now, altogether! Get the back door, Shorty!” bellowed the
leader.

The front door bulged and creaked under a second attack, and again
Dot fired. A howl of rage broke from one of the men. There was a mad
scramble out of range.

“Smoke ’em out! Smoke ’em out!” rose the furious cry.

“Good Lord! They’re goin’ to burn down the house,” wailed Lemuel
hysterically.

“Say, men!” shouted Lex. “There’s some mistake. This is Sangerly of
the Mohave & Southwestern speaking. I’ll vouch for Mr. Huntington.
He’s never had any friendly relations with this outlaw——”

“Is that so, Sangerly?” sneered the leader of the mob. “Well, you’re
not such a wise guy as you think you are. Huntington was
entertaining Billy Gee here this evening. He’s been hanging out at
this ranch right along. Say, Huntington, are you delivering yourself
up, or do we burn you out?”

Lennox, listening fearfully from his cot in the little room off the
kitchen, recognized the speaker as Big George Rankin, czar of
Geerusalem’s underworld.

“Why, that’s ridiculous,” cried Lex. “Mr. Huntington captured Billy
Gee and turned him over to the authorities——”

The roar of voices which had ceased during the brief parley, rose
again now, violent and menacing.

“It’s a lie! It’s a lie! I ain’t bin friends with the measly skunk,”
moaned Lemuel. Mrs. Liggs was staring at him, in a dumb, bewildered
way.

Dot still watched the door. Her eyes were glittering dangerously,
her whole manner betokening cool, desperate determination. Lex,
unused to frontier crises of this kind, had left his revolver in his
room. He now ran in to get it and found that the men on the porch
were trying the windows. He had barely discovered this fact, when a
revolver ripped suddenly down through the panes, showering him with
glass. At the same instant, he heard the kitchen door fall in with a
crash. Rushing back into the hall, he was just in time to come under
a bristling array of leveled guns in the hands of bandanna-masked
men, trained on the Huntington household.

In a trice, Dot was disarmed and Lemuel hurled into his room to
dress. The place was quickly overrun by the mob, rummaging and
ransacking bureaus, closets, trunks. Even the cupboard was swept
clean. To Lex, it seemed as if they went about their work with a
thoroughness that was almost painstakingly vicious. It was as if
they were following out some plan to render the house untenantable,
to strip its owner of his belongings.

Rankin, big and burly, his cruel eyes fiery over his red mask,
stopped before Dot.

“You be on your way out of the country before morning, kid! Get me?”
he growled. “And take this old dame along with you,” indicating the
half-fainting Mrs. Liggs whom the girl held in her arms. “Get out
and stay out!” He turned to Lex. “As for you, Mr. Sangerly, you’ve
got a room in the Miners’ Hotel. See that you occupy it, if you’re
not looking for a coat of tar. Outside, gang, and clean up the
works!”

The majority of the mob went trooping away in obedience to the
command, and presently Lex heard sounds which proclaimed the
destruction of the outbuildings, coupled with the frantic clamor of
the occupants of coop and sty.

A man hurried in from the kitchen and beckoned Rankin to one side.
“Lennox’s layin’ in there with a busted leg,” he whispered.

“Hell he is! Well, you know your orders, Shorty. Bump him off, but
wait till we leave, see? Tell Logan to help you. Make a good job of
it.”

A number of men dragged Lemuel from his room. He was in a state of
collapse. Dot relinquished Mrs. Liggs to Lex, and rushing forward,
threw her arms around her father’s neck, begging, pleading
hysterically with Rankin, to no purpose. Sangerly began an
impassioned appeal also, and received a brutal blow in the face for
his interference.

Out through the front door they hustled Lemuel. They bundled him on
a horse and set a guard over him, while Rankin rounded up his gang
preparatory to departing. At last, with a parting six-shooter volley
into the air and a chorus of wild shouts, the mob spurred away. The
first faint shafts of light were beginning to silver the eastern
sky. Soapweed Plains had never seemed so tragically silent, so
filled with woe and frightful foreboding.

Out on the front porch, Lex stood holding Mrs. Liggs. The little old
lady was moaning pitifully, clutching Dot’s hand in her own
trembling one. The girl was, for the moment, stricken dumb by the
suddenness of it all—the destruction of the ranch, the bold
abduction of her father, horror over his possible fate at the hands
of that lawless crowd. Then she roused herself and darted into the
house. The next instant she reappeared, hatted and cloaked, and sped
down the steps and along the walk leading to the rear of the
premises. Alarmed at her action, Lex helped Mrs. Liggs to a porch
chair and hurried after her. He overtook her as she was scrambling
through the wire fence into the field.

“Miss Huntington, where are you going?” he panted.

“I’m following them. Please help me catch a horse!” she cried
wildly. “Oh, the beasts! The beasts! They’re——” She broke off and
listened frantically into the night. “Hear them? They’re taking him
toward camp, but there is a trail branching off. They’re going that
way. I heard one of them say they intend to set him afoot in Lone
Mountain Pass. He’ll die out there. Quick! Mr. Sangerly, I——”

“My car,” he burst out. “If they haven’t destroyed it—tampered with
it.” He grasped her arm, and together they raced for the roadster
standing to one side of the driveway. “But we ought to run into camp
and report the matter to the authorities. We can’t hope to do
anything alone, Miss Huntington. It would be madness to oppose
them,” he argued, as they sprang into the machine.

By a streak of good fortune—which that arch-plotter Jule Quintell
could have easily explained, considering that he felt confident of
putting over the right of way deal—the night riders had left the
roadster severely alone.

Dot made no reply, and Lex started turning the roadster around in
the wide space of yard. At this juncture, two shots rang out inside
the house, followed by Mrs. Liggs’ terrified scream from the front
porch. A hoarse cry broke from Lex. He brought the car to a sudden
halt.

“My God—Lennox! I’d forgotten him. They’ve killed——”

There was a sound of blundering footfalls across the bare kitchen
floor. The next instant, a man staggered out of the back door,
toppled down the steps, and pitched headlong to the ground, in the
full glare of the headlights. Blood was issuing from his mouth.

Then, while Dot and Lex gazed horrified at the prostrate form, a
shriveled-up little figure appeared in the kitchen door, clutching a
revolver in one bony hand. It was Tinnemaha Pete.

“That you, Spangaree?” he cackled excitedly at the roadster. “Son of
a gun! Got ’em both—first pop. They was goin’ to drill Mr. Lummox,
an’ I dropped ’em. Poorty as ye please. First pop. Son of a gun!
Ain’t killed a man afore, either. That’s one of ’em. First pop,
Spangaree. Agatha! Looket, Agatha——” He went trotting through the
house, calling to Mrs. Liggs.

Dot, staring at the dead man, shivered.

Lex got the roadster under way. It sped out of the driveway and into
the road, gathering speed; plunging and swaying along, the sand
rattling like machine-gun fire against the under side of the
fenders. The girl, wide-eyed, her face bloodless, drawn with fear,
watched in awful suspense for sight of the mob.

“We’d better drive to camp, Miss Huntington, and get out the
constable—have him lead a posse after them. It’s the safest course,
all around,” said Lex presently.

A sob broke from her. “Oh, what terrible thing are they going to
do!” she cried in anguish. “We’ll have to save him. Can’t you see?
We can’t leave him. It’ll take time to get help. Oh, Mr. Sangerly——”

“It’s a terrible situation, I know,” he interrupted gently; “but you
must understand that these ruffians will hesitate at nothing. When
they would plan to murder poor Lennox, lying in bed, unable to
defend himself, what consideration would they give us?”

“Oh, I don’t know! I don’t know!” she moaned. “Perhaps you’re right.
I can’t think clearly. Merciful Father, have pity on——” She broke
off, glaring intently ahead. “There they are! There they are!”

As she spoke, the galloping mass of the night riders came into view.
The roadster bore down on it rapidly, and the powerful rays of the
headlights growing brighter and brighter, startled the horses. Those
in the rear began bolting in fright, swerving sharply, unmanageable
for the instant. But that instant proved sufficient in which to
throw the entire body into confusion. It split, scattering to either
side of the road, and Lex, a cold hand clutching his heart, steered
the car into the breach, stepping on the gas as he did so.

A deafening roar went up from the cavalcade. A hail of bullets
riddled the radiator. Racing alongside, several of the riders thrust
their six-shooters down on Lex and the girl, commanding a halt. Dot
got a fleeting glimpse of her father, bareheaded, his face ashen
with terror. He sat astride a horse, his hands tied behind him. Lex
brought the machine to a stop, and the mob surrounded it.

“Out of that buzz wagon, partner!” cried Big George Rankin, spurring
forward. “It seems to me you’re itching for that coat of tar I
promised you. You can’t monkey with a law-and-order bunch in these
parts without getting your feet wet. Kid,” addressing Dot, “you hop
out of there, too. I suppose, Mr. Sangerly, you were on your way to
spread the alarm, eh? Well, we’ll attend to you before we do
anything else. You’re a pretty wise bird—in Los Angeles,” he added
significantly.

The whole troop was by now drawn around the roadster—a grim company,
surely, what with their grotesque, blood-red handkerchief masks and
attitude of lawless abandon. Lex and Dot stood on the ground near
the roadster. The girl was weeping audibly, gazing with distracted
eyes through the press of horsemen for sight of Lemuel.

“Father!” she cried again and again, her agonized voice rising above
the chorus of menacing suggestions as to what should be done with
the meddlers of the night’s business. But she got no answer to her
passionate cry.

Day was breaking fast, as is usual on the Southwestern deserts.
Soapweed Plains lay cold and gray and mysterious to the eye, its
vast stretches of brush and sand resembling some gigantic
crazy-quilted design. The Geerusalem Hills rose near at hand,
looking like a great dab of mixed paint—a vividly mineralized pile
of granite and porphyritic rock.

Rankin and two other men were conversing in low animated tones,
trying to arrive at some decision concerning the disposal of Dot and
Lex. They were not agreeing.

Suddenly a shot rang out from beyond the circle, followed by the
gurgling cry of a man. There was a wild scamper of hoofs, then the
sharp crack of a quirt across a horse’s withers. A volley screamed
over the roadster. The riders clustered around it hesitated an
instant. Another volley scattered them like chaff, dropping three of
their number. This way and that they dashed madly, every man for
himself. Rankin roared out a command, hurling a string of oaths
after them.

“If you’re lookin’ for Billy Gee, here he is. Come take him! Come
on, you brave wallopers! You—Rankin!” shouted a lone horseman,
sitting his mount some distance away. He fired, and the leader’s hat
went sailing off his head. Emptying his revolver wildly at the
other, Rankin, fuming with rage, swung his horse about and sped
after his followers.

A wild thrill swept Dot. She stared in blank amazement at the erect
slim figure of their rescuer. Far behind him, racing across the
plains like mad, went another rider, her father, and Billy Gee, the
outlaw, the hero of her romantic dreams, was covering his retreat,
holding in nervous indecision two score ruffians who faltered at the
mere mention of that magic name, which stood for open defiance of
law! She knew that Billy Gee must have been a member of that mob,
that he had joined it with the express purpose of liberating her
father at the first opportunity.

While she gazed at him these things flashed through her mind; and
into her bosom came an ecstasy, sweeter than any she had ever known.
Out there in the cold gray dawn of Soapweed Plains, was the man she
loved, alone, dauntlessly challenging a heavily armed cavalcade that
had visited its wrath on the Huntington home because of him, a
cowardly crew whom he had dispersed with a dozen shots!

On and on, dashed Lemuel, horse and rider growing smaller and
smaller in the distance. The enemy, under Rankin’s repeated abuse
and threats, had drawn rein a few hundred yards away. It began a
cautious approach, firing as it came. Billy Gee waited. Dot,
becoming alarmed at his inactivity, now noticed that, besides being
out of revolver range, he gripped a rifle. In that he had a decided
advantage—one which he proceeded to put to use with demoralizing
effect.

He brought up the weapon suddenly. There was a flash, and one of the
horsemen slumped in the saddle. Again and again the rifle cracked.
The morale of the mob ebbed in the face of that unerring
marksmanship. The outlaw reloaded, and with something of that
dare-devil spirit which had made him the terror of the region, dug
spurs to his horse and charged straight for the nearest group of
riders, firing with deadly precision as he rode. The group made to
stand its ground, but the very fact that this advancing foe was the
dreaded bandit of the Mohave, whose past death-defying exploits had
set them agog with awe and wonder, proved too much for their vaunted
temerity. They whirled about in a panic, and after them went the
remaining members of the band, the rifle bullets whining in their
ears.

Billy Gee reined in his horse and watched the rout he had caused.
Then the very thing he could have predicted came to pass. The
horsemen stopped a quarter of a mile off, congregated to talk over a
plan of action. Rankin was not for giving up. Billy could hear him
bellowing out commands, urging his fellows with curse and taunt back
to the attack and the extermination of the outlaw.


CHAPTER XX—GEERUSALEM STIRS

Billy Gee galloped up to the roadster. Dot and Lex had been standing
back of it, watching in silence the ridiculous debacle of the
Quintell mob caused by this lone knight of the road. The outlaw
jerked his horse to a stop before the two, and glanced first at Lex,
then at the girl. He smiled at her, an odd, expectant light in his
eyes, and swept off his hat cavalierly.

“Yore father is headin’ for Blue Mud Spring, Miss Huntington.
Warburton is campin’ there, as you mebby know. I reckon he’ll be
safer.” He spoke in low, gentle tones.

She regarded him for a moment with an eagerness that she could not
hide. The early morning light was on his face, its subtle rosiness
softening it, showing a lingering loneliness and sympathy in the
flashing eyes, a boyishness of feature, a charming recklessness of
expression. He sat his horse gracefully, his figure garbed in
whipcord, flowing white chaps covering his legs, his hat a splendid
huge thing of gray felt, while about his neck hung the bandanna
handkerchief that had recently served him as a mask.

She blushed, approval and admiration in her eyes, and held out her
hand to him.

“I don’t know how to thank you for this, Billy Gee,” she said
simply, a quiver in her voice.

“You don’t never need to, Dot. I owe you a bigger favor, you
reckillect. I jest happened to fall in with the gang as it was
ridin’ out here, an’ heerd what they were goin’ to do. But I’d not
have got away with it, if you hadn’t come along in yore auto, Mr.
Sangerly—that is, not easy,” he added, with a look at Lex. “Of
course, you know this here’s Quintell’s doin’s. He’s payin’ pretty
for it, let me tell you.”

Dot was gazing fixedly at him, a wistful light in her eyes that her
heavy lashes concealed.

“Are you sure of that—that Quintell is at the bottom of this thing?”
asked Lex, watching the other narrowly.

“Positive. All that talk about Huntington hiding me out was a bluff.
They framed it so’s to git hold of him. I’m mighty glad Warburton’s
in the country.”

Sangerly smiled. “I also want to thank you for what you’ve done for
us, Billy Gee.” He added: “And for leaving our trains alone.”

“A man’ll do a thing right along, Mr. Sangerly, an’ his own mother
won’t be able to change him. Then he jest nacherly changes.” He said
this soberly, throwing a glance at the distant horsemen as he spoke.

They had begun to ride forward again slowly, in open formation,
scattering to the flanks as they came, in a wide enveloping movement
calculated to get the bandit in a crossfire that would make his
escape impossible.

Dot noted the maneuver and looked at Billy Gee, mute entreaty in her
eyes. He met her gaze and laughed easily.

“You an’ Mr. Sangerly better wait till they start chasin’ me, then
go on into camp an’ arrange to quit the ranch. ’Tain’t safe to live
there,” he said, as he gathered up the reins. “Quintell aims to
drive you out of the deestrict, but he won’t. An’ say, Sangerly! I
wisht you’d visit him to-night. How about eight o’clock? I want you
to hear somepn for yoreself. There’s stick-up men who don’t use a
gun like yours truly. Good-by, Dot! I want powerful much to have a
long chat with you, some day. Did you see where Jerome Liggs struck
it rich?” With a glance at Lex, he smiled at Dot, swept off his hat
and went galloping away.

Wild yells broke from the advancing vigilantes. Their revolvers
began to roar, and with quirt and spur they quickened their speed in
pursuit of their quarry. Sangerly and Dot crouched down behind the
roadster to avoid the hail of bullets that now screamed around them.
Presently the cavalcade swept by, leaving a cloud of dust behind
them, hanging motionless on the still morning air. Lashing their
animals madly, they tore away across the plains, bending every
energy to apprehend and vent their vengeance on the man who
single-handed had frustrated their sinister plans.

It was now quite light, the eastern horizon glowing red and orange
with the first shafts of the invisible sun.

Billy Gee headed straight for the Huntington ranch. His wiry little
horse, trained to just such desperate get-aways as this, swept over
the ground like the wind. Dot, her small hands clenched, her face
flushing and paling by turns with what Lex believed was anxiety,
watched the pursuit in silence. Now and again, through a rift in the
cloud of dust, she caught sight of the lone rider. He sat his horse
with the grace of a fleeing centaur, and she noticed that he was
outdistancing his pursuers by degrees—saving his own animal, she
thought. Once she saw him rise in his stirrups and wave his hat. She
wrenched a white scarf she wore around her neck and waved back.
After that, he kept gaining and gaining rapidly.

“What a wonderful horse!” exclaimed Lex, breaking a long silence.
“Look! He’s gone past the ranch. They’ve given up. See? They’ve
stopped. I’ve never seen such a remarkable exhibition of pluck in
all my life, Miss Huntington. He’s an extraordinary bandit.”

Billy Gee, half a mile in the lead of the cavalcade, flashed by the
Huntington gate. His mother and Tinnemaha Pete had witnessed the
race. They stood just inside the fence, trembling, breathless.

“Jerome, my darling!” cried Mrs. Liggs wildly.

“I’m all right, honey,” Billy Gee called back, throwing her a smile.
“I’ve headed Huntington for Blue Mud Spring. Dot an’ Sangerly got
by. See you soon.”

“The sheriff—look out for that pesky critter, Warburton!” shrilled
Tinnemaha Pete. “He’s lookin’ for you. Pop it to him, d’you hear!
Pop it to him——”

“Jerome—the sheriff!” screamed Mrs. Liggs.

Billy Gee, out of hearing, nodded reassuringly, wondering what they
had said.

A quarter of a mile beyond the ranch, he pulled his horse down to a
walk. Pursuit had been abandoned. He laughed, sitting sidelong in
the saddle, gazing back. Suddenly, as if in his very ear, a man’s
voice rang out, saying:

“I got a bead on yore heart, Billy. Don’t look around. I don’t want
to have to kill you, Billy.”

His horse was brought to a stop, and an expert hand reached up and
disarmed him.

“Hullo Bob! Much obliged for bein’ so consid’rate,” said the outlaw,
his head averted. “You’re jest the man I want to see.”

“I’ll bet I am,” chuckled Sheriff Warburton grimly. “Le’s see yore
hands! All set, now.” He snapped the handcuffs on his prisoner.

Billy Gee turned and looked at his captor. He was afoot. Some
distance off, his mule stood partially hidden by a clump of brush.

“If you don’t figger on losin’ me, we better start. That roarin’
layout is the Quintell bunch. They’re after me. They all but
dynamited the Huntington place last night,” said Billy Gee evenly.

Warburton scowled. “What’s this you’re givin’ me?”

He glanced toward the ranch and made out the tiny figure of Mrs.
Liggs standing in the garden, her face buried in her hands, and the
scarecrow one of old Tinnemaha Pete, arms waving above his head,
raging about in insane fashion.


The mob had collected and, slouching in its saddles, listened to Big
George Rankin’s reasons why the chase should not be continued.
Daylight had brought the leader of Geerusalem’s underworld face to
face with the gravity of the night’s activity. Masked men were
likely to fall into the toils of the law, even in so lawless a
locality as this. Rankin did not relish being identified with the
Huntington job. He had too much to lose. He did not care to take any
unnecessary risks. What he told his confederates, however, was that
they would be wasting time trying to track down an outlaw who,
besides riding superior horseflesh, knew every square foot of the
vast Mohave Desert.

At last, they started on their return to camp, tired, hungry, in no
genial mood. Their raid had in great measure been for naught. Their
plans to intimidate Lemuel Huntington into leaving the country, had
been frustrated by the unexpected interference of Billy Gee. They
had to confront Jule Quintell and his clique and admit miscarriage
of those plans.

From discussing the matter among themselves, their bitterness toward
Huntington, and every one who had to do with Huntington, increased.
Lex Sangerly, Dot, and Mrs. Liggs came under a new scheme of
persecution which they presently determined on, as they rode along.
They would raid the ranch again that night, declared Rankin, and
burn it to the ground, and they would take precautions that no Billy
Gee would be about to defeat their aims. It is not strange that,
with other more important matters in contemplation, the absence of
Shorty and Logan—delegated to kill Lennox—was not noted. In fact,
Shorty and Logan were not missed until late that afternoon.


For some reason that Lex Sangerly could not understand, it was with
manifest reluctance that Dot finally agreed to accompany him into
Geerusalem. She favored returning to the ranch, in the face of the
knowledge that they would have to pass the disgruntled night riders
approaching along the road.

“Mrs. Liggs will be safe until we come back,” argued Lex, as they
went whirling away. “This fellow, Billy Gee, doesn’t seem like a man
who would harm a defenseless old lady. Wasn’t that the most
spectacular rescue, Miss Huntington?”

“I am sure he wouldn’t harm her,” said Dot slowly. “He’s wonderful!
One man against forty cowardly curs. Didn’t I tell you in San
Francisco what an extraordinary person he was?”

“He certainly isn’t what I’ve always pictured a bandit to be. He’s
got character in his face. A good eye. A rather likable fellow, I’d
say.”

She looked at him. “You’re going to meet him to-night, Mr. Sangerly.
I know you’re going to admire Billy Gee hereafter. Hasn’t it struck
you as odd that he is trusting you? What assurance has he that you
won’t have him placed under arrest?”

“My understanding was that I was to visit Quintell. I didn’t suppose
that I was to meet him there, also,” said Lex coldly. “Keeping an
appointment with a criminal, Miss Huntington, is not exactly——”

“Mr. Sangerly, please don’t ask me how I know, but this meeting will
be to your interest. I am positive of it. I feel it, with a woman’s
intuition. Can’t you see that he is really risking his liberty so
that you may hear something for yourself? That’s just what he said.
He knows who you are—all about you. And you must bear in mind that
there have been no more holdups on the Mohave & Southwestern. He has
reformed. Please don’t smile. He has. I want to ask this favor of
you: Meet him to-night, as you would keep any appointment, but not
with an officer at your elbow. Will you do that?”

She had spoken rapidly, a strange, eager, pleading note in her
voice. Her eyes, fixed on him, held an animated light, her cheeks
the faintest tint of red. They were just turning into Geerusalem
Gulch, the rays of the rising sun silvering the windows of the camp
a mile away.

For a long moment, Lex stared at her, searching her pretty face.
Then he broke into a laugh.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were—well, an ardent admirer
of this far-famed train robber, and that would be putting it mildly.
But your arguments are reasonable. I’ll do it. I promise to meet him
under those conditions—this one time. You appear to know a lot about
Billy Gee, don’t you, Miss Huntington?” he added curiously.

“I don’t mind confessing to you that I do,” she admitted in a naïve
way that quite amazed him. “I can tell you that your road will never
be robbed again by him.”

“Are you serious about that?” he asked. “It seems to me that a young
woman of your standing wouldn’t be in a position to——”

“I was never more serious in my life, Mr. Sangerly, and as far as
position is concerned, there are no social planes in this great land
of sun, sand and silence. We are all human beings, some more
fortunate than others, but no better under the skin.”

She met his look with a candor that caused him to gaze ahead,
frowning at the road. There was a short silence.

“It—it isn’t possible that you have—influenced him?” he said
hesitatingly, after a little.

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t just call it that. I told you how he
hid the twenty thousand dollars in my bureau drawer, unknown to me?
Well, during the talk I had with him, I asked him if he would do
something to repay me for taking care of him. He replied that he
would—anything. And I exacted his promise that he would quit leading
the life of a bandit. It was all done in one thrilling moment—one
midnight. Posses were scouring the country for him at the time. He
promised me, as you’ve just promised me. He’s made good. I think
he’s magnificent.”

As Lex brought the roadster to a stop before the Miners’ Hotel, he
said: “By the way, Billy Gee mentioned Jerome Liggs as though he
knew him. Does he happen to be a relative of Mrs. Liggs? She had a
son——”

“He is, and I know him.” She regarded Lex intently as she spoke.

“But that was her son’s name. We were kids together—chums.”

“It is he,” she said slowly.

Lex sat bolt upright, forgetting to clamber out of the roadster.
Just then he was oblivious of the fact that a crowd was gathering on
the sidewalk, and that Dot was the object of many eyes.

“Why, she told me he was dead!” he burst out. “I saw in the paper
yesterday that he struck it rich. Where is he——”

The increasing buzz of voices around him made him glance up. He saw
the throng of staring men. They packed the sidewalk, spilled into
the street, partly surrounding the machine. There was something
inimical in their manner, a bold severity in their scrutiny of Dot.
Lex’s sudden display of astonishment and pleasure passed at sight of
that menacing crowd. He sprang out of the car and threw open the
door for the girl.

The hostility in the faces of the men had not been lost on Dot. It
struck her instantly that this was not the elemental type of ruffian
who had wrecked her home some hours before. These grim accusing
individuals were substantial business men—the commercial backbone of
Geerusalem. She grew pale.

Clinging to Lex’s arm, she entered the hotel, the crowd parting to
let them pass. Once inside and with Mr. Merriman, the proprietor,
hurrying toward them, she breathed easier. He beckoned them into a
little writing room that adjoined the office.

“Is Mr. Huntington in camp?” he asked in low, excited tones.

Dot shook her head. “Get word to him not to show up here—to keep
away,” he went on rapidly. “The report has got around that he’s been
hiding Billy Gee, the outlaw. He is accused of being an accomplice,
of being the relative or friend that the bandit was generally
supposed to have on the plains. The camp is furious—ready to riot.
They held a mass meeting last night and decided to——”

“That’s ridiculous, Mr. Merriman. It’s persecution,” cried Lex. “I
just came from the ranch with Miss Huntington. I’ve been staying
there. I know what I’m talking about. The report is a lie. Who
circulated it?”

“I don’t know. But Jule Quintell acted as chairman of the meeting
and did most of the speaking. Whether it’s true or not, the camp
believes it. They’re backing Quintell to a man. They won’t stop at
anything——”

“The beast!” broke in Dot, her eyes fiery with suppressed rage. “He
sent a gang of his hoodlums out to our home last night, and they all
but destroyed it, Mr. Merriman.” She turned to Sangerly. “Would you
please send a machine out after Mrs. Liggs? We must not leave her
alone out there. Tinnemaha Pete can look after—you know, the sick
man. And do try to reach Sheriff Warburton at Blue Mud Spring. Mr.
Merriman, have you a messenger we can trust? I’m going to have
Quintell arrested.”


CHAPTER XXI—THE LAW AND THE LAWLESS

When Lex was gone, Dot gave the sympathetic hotel man the details of
the raid on the ranch, omitting nothing except the fact of her
father’s abduction and subsequent rescue; for she believed it unwise
at this time when Lemuel was being accused of having friendly
relations with Billy Gee, to mention the important part—heroic and
praiseworthy though it was—the latter had played in the night’s
events. She was positive that the raiders themselves would keep
silent on the matter, if for no other reason than to cover up the
lawlessness of their own act.

“But have you any proof that Quintell is at the bottom of this
persecution, Dot?” asked Merriman, when she concluded.

“No. Not direct proof, but——”

“In that case, I wouldn’t make any rash move. If you have him
arrested, it will simply aggravate the situation. You’d be worse off
for it. Right now, Quintell is a power in Geerusalem. He is the new
president of the Mining Exchange, besides. His clique is in absolute
control. You couldn’t get a person to believe your charges. I’d
advise you to wait—talk it over with Warburton first.”

“But, Mr. Merriman, this whole thing is a plot to ruin us,” cried
the girl. “I don’t know why. We have never had dealings with the
people of this camp, except to patronize the stores, and all our
bills are paid. In the light of what happened last night, would you
have us fold our hands and let them do what they seem bent on
doing—force us to leave the country?”

Merriman patted her shoulder paternally. “I’m sure it’s not as bad
as all that, Dot,” he said with a smile. “Things will adjust
themselves, I know. Right now, the prudent course to pursue is to
say nothing and see that your father remains away for a while.”

Dot gazed significantly at him a moment, then she said: “Quintell
was out to see father early last evening. He wanted to buy the
ranch. He offered better than thirty dollars an acre—ten thousand
dollars. Would you pay that much for the Huntington ranch, Mr.
Merriman, just as it stands?”

The man’s eyes opened wide with surprise. He whistled softly and
replied, with a shrewd nod of his head: “So that’s it! I think I see
the scheme, Dot—and it is a scheme. Something about your father’s
ranch has made it valuable to Jule. And it’s mineral—nothing less.
I’d say it was pretty good, because he never bothers with anything
that isn’t pretty good. He’s liable to go the limit, Dot. Perhaps I
shouldn’t say it, but he can be mighty dirty in his methods.”

“You might be right, but I don’t think he wants the ranch for the
mineral that may be on it,” said the girl. “I am sure he has some
other object. Did you ever hear talk of a resort, to be established
a few miles out of camp?”

“Do you mean a summer resort?”

“Yes, something on that order.”

He smiled. “I was discussing with Harrison, Quintell’s secretary,
some weeks ago, the possibility of starting such an enterprise. He
seemed interested—enthusiastic, I might say. I believe we mentioned
your father’s ranch as one of the sites. Of course, you understand,
we were just speculating. While a resort would be a veritable mint
once it got going, the initial investment would be prohibitive so
far as I’m concerned. Why do you ask?”

Dot’s eyes glowed on him. “Mr. Merriman, if I entertained any doubts
as to whether Quintell had a hand in last night’s outrage, you have
dispelled them,” she said. Thereupon, she related to him the
particulars of Dick Lennox’s visit to her and Lemuel at the Golden
West Hotel in San Francisco.

They were still talking when Lex returned. He announced that he had
dispatched a machine to bring Mrs. Liggs to camp, and instructed the
driver to tell Warburton—in the event the latter was at the
ranch—that Dot wished to see him immediately. Moreover, he had sent
a cowboy riding for Blue Mud Springs, with a letter counseling
Lemuel to remain in hiding, as well as requesting Warburton’s
presence in Geerusalem.

While Dot and Lex were at breakfast in the hotel dining room, six
horsemen rode singly out of camp. They were armed. They were old in
the game of hip-shooting—practiced in the grim art of killing. They
could keep a can dancing in midair as long as loaded six-shooters
held out. In the pocket of each was a neat little roll of bills,
slipped there by Jule Quintell’s right bower, Harrison. Their
instructions were to seize the hill on the Huntington ranch, destroy
the location monuments and notices on what were known as the Billy
Geerusalem group of claims—locators, Tinnemaha Pete Boyd and Jerome
Liggs—and relocate over their own signatures.

Reposing in Quintell’s safe in the Broker’s Exchange Building were
deeds signed in advance by the six, which transferred what they
intended to get possession of to the boss of Geerusalem and his
associates. The deep motive beneath this move, however, was the
death of Jerome Liggs and Tinnemaha Pete. That Dot’s father escaped
a similar sentence was due, not entirely to Quintell’s hesitation to
take so rash a step, as to the fact that, after hearing the report
of the vigilantes’ work as given by Big George Rankin, the
broker—following a furious scene in his office—had arrived at the
conclusion that the havoc wrought at the ranch coupled with the
terror with which Huntington and his daughter must be now inspired,
sufficed to force them into a position to meet his terms for the
purchase of the ranch.

But of his contemplated cold-blooded murder of the discoverers of
the rich Billy Geerusalem strike, Quintell said nothing to his
associates. Their putting away had nothing directly to do with this
obvious act of dispossession. As has been said, Huntington owned the
land on which the bonanza find had been made; the broker knew this
and, in consequence, realized only too well that legal right to it
must come from its owner, who, it must be remembered, had not the
remotest idea of the fabulous treasure buried in the bleak, solitary
hill west of his home.

Meanwhile, Quintell was busy stirring up public sentiment in the
camp against Huntington. He had called a meeting the night before
and charged that Billy Gee, the outlaw, had been found in hiding on
the Huntington ranch. While he had not seen the bandit, Quintell
gave a graphic account of an exciting chase after that elusive
person, which had terminated when Sheriff Warburton mistook him for
Billy Gee in the darkness, and dragged him into the house, resulting
in the outlaw’s escape.

His whole story was a clever network of lies, convincingly told, and
calculated to brand Dot’s father as an undesirable resident, if
nothing worse; one who was scarcely as honest as Billy Gee, since
Quintell made him appear as an accomplice who had been masquerading
for years in the rôle of a reputable, law-abiding rancher. Moreover,
he assailed Warburton by pointing to the latter’s friendship for
Huntington, and intimated that Billy Gee’s sensational get-away from
the sheriff, following Lemuel’s delivery of his prisoner to the
official, was framed for the purpose of getting the reward which, he
gave as his opinion, had been divided equally among the three. And
because Quintell had a smooth tongue and a way of putting things
over, Geerusalem believed his charges.

At the appointed hour—ten o’clock—Lex Sangerly left Dot in the hotel
parlor and stepped over to Quintell’s office to accompany the broker
on an inspection tour of the Lucky Boy placer claims. He went with
reluctance, feeling more keenly than on the day previous his
suspicions of Quintell in regard to the right of way matter, to
which was added a profound indignation and rage against this
wildcatter who was, from all Lex could hear, the cause of the
Huntington raid.

A few minutes after Lex’s departure, Mrs. Liggs and Sheriff
Warburton arrived in camp, and, as the result of a short talk he had
with Dot, Warburton prevailed on her to take no immediate action
looking to the arrest of Quintell, until he had investigated the
case. Leaving the two women, he strolled out of the hotel and stood
listening to a discussion going on among the members of a crowd of
men standing before the entrance. Lemuel Huntington was being
roundly condemned. There were ominous grumblings, threats being
voiced; mob law was being openly fomented. To Warburton, wise in the
psychology of crime and the natures of men, darkness alone was
needed to spread the flame of lawlessness over that wild desert
settlement. It would sweep through the underworld section, and
thence from one mine bunk house to another, calling out the habitués
of the dens and the grimy underground workers to mass in one
vicious, formidable army, that, venting its violence on the
Huntington ranch and its household, might finish out the night with
an orgy of destruction and murder in the camp itself.

He looked up and down the street. Groups of men were everywhere. His
eyes rested on the gilt sign bearing Quintell’s name, on the
Brokers’ Exchange Building. A grim smile parted his lips. Quintell
was surely a power in Geerusalem, he told himself. Presently his eye
fell on the dapper figure of the town constable. The fellow, in
correct mining camp attire—the rakish cut approved by the ranking
element—stood spread-legged on the sidewalk, complacently smoking a
cigarette. Warburton’s jaws set. He strode over to the man.

“Hullo, Mitchell!” he said gruffly.

The other glanced at the sheriff’s face with its two weeks’ growth
of bristly whiskers, at the dirty shirt and overalls, then back at
their owner’s face.

“It isn’t possible that it’s Sheriff Warburton?” he began, with a
grin.

“It is. When I’m doin’ my duty, Mitchell, I don’t tog up. I’d like
to talk to you a minute.” He led the way to the hotel office,
halting just inside the entrance. “What’re you goin’ to do about
this thing—all this lynch-law stuff they’re cookin’ up?” he asked.

The constable chuckled. “Do? Why, I’m powerless to do anything. A
man would be crazy to interfere. The sentiment of the camp is such
that if I butted in, they’d swear I was trying to protect Huntington
and——”

“What’re you sportin’ that tin buzzer for,” broke in Warburton, with
a contemptuous nod at the silver star on the breast of Mitchell’s
tailored coat.

The man flushed angrily. “Say, Warburton, what’s eating you,
anyhow?” he asked defiantly. “I’m constable of this township and——”

“You’ll find out what’s eatin’ me, in jest about ten minutes,”
snapped the sheriff. “You git on the job or, by God, you’ll wisht
you had! I’m tellin’ you somepn, Mitchell.” Glaring at the other, he
turned and walked out of the door.

Mitchell’s rough laugh followed him.

Raging inwardly, cursing to himself, Warburton halted on the
sidewalk. Word of his presence in camp had traveled like magic, and
the crowd before the hotel was fast filling the street from curb to
curb. It was an ominous crowd, the dregs of the settlement mingling
with the army of mine workers, with here and there one of Quintell’s
associates, circulating through the ranks whispering words of
advice. Standing there in full view of the multitude, glancing it
over, Warburton marked the hostility in its look and attitude.
Caustic remarks began to be directed at him.

“Where’s your bandit friend, sheriff?”

“Hey, fellers, there’s Huntington’s bodyguard!”

“Billy Gee’s duck-hunting on the Huntington ranch, Warburton. Why
don’t you go get him?”

Warburton’s jaw set. His eyes flickered dangerously. A few yards
away, grouped together on the sidewalk, stood a dozen or more
cow-punchers—members of the Las Animas ranch, a large principality
of fertile range on the north rim of Soapweed Plains—their great
hats and gaudy silk neckerchiefs conspicuous in that sea of drab
sameness. Having nothing in common with the men of the mines, they
stood, curious spectators of the drama that was being enacted before
them, maintaining a strictly neutral attitude in an affair of which
they knew absolutely nothing. They had arrived in camp an hour
before for a three-day lark and, true to the traditions of their
kind, were willing to accept whatever fate tendered them—so long as
it promised a departure from the usual humdrum of their daily
existence.

Warburton gave them a significant look, then he faced the crowd
again and raised his hand for silence.

So it was, that, as Quintell, accompanied by Lex Sangerly, Harrison,
and two other men drove down the street in a machine bound for the
Lucky Boy placer claims, they found the greatest throng ever
assembled in Geerusalem gathered before the Miners’ Hotel, listening
to Sheriff Warburton’s defense of Lemuel Huntington. The official
was speaking vehemently, angrily, looking massive and potential from
his elevated position on a hotel chair.

Quintell, who was driving, steered the car through the jam of men to
a point opposite the speaker. He was pale, his eyes blazing with
hatred. Warburton was just bringing his talk to a conclusion.

“An’ that’s how I happen to be in these parts. I’ve swore to git
Billy Gee, dead or alive, an’ that’s what I aim to do. I was at the
ranch last night from start to finish—like I jest said. An’ the man
that says Lem Huntington is in cahoots with Billy Gee is a damn
liar.”

Quintell slipped out from back of the steering wheel and stood up.
Neatly groomed, his appearance—compared with the sheriff’s—at once
dignified and impressive, he merited in every particular the title
he had earned—boss of Geerusalem. With a sharp glance over the
crowd, he began in a slow, ringing voice:

“Men of Geerusalem! I want you to all know that, regardless of what
this sheriff of San Buenaventura County has said, he is not only an
intimate friend of Lemuel Huntington, but the very man who has let
Billy Gee slip through his fingers twice. There stands efficiency
for you.” He leveled an accusing finger at Warburton. “There’s the
stripe of official the taxpayers of this county are supporting—an
official who has the audacity to address an intelligent audience of
this kind in an endeavor to whitewash the shrewdest crook who ever
betrayed the trust of the good people of this camp and section.
Gentlemen, it’s this official’s word against mine. I charge Lemuel
Huntington with being on intimate terms with an outlaw. Whom are you
going to believe?”

A wild, deafening roar went up, increasing in volume as Warburton,
his face purple with fury, made an attempt to speak.

“Lynch him! Lynch him! Get Huntington!” howled the multitude.

They swarmed about Quintell’s machine, clamoring their approval of
the broker. The din and excitement grew. Sheriff Warburton stood
deserted, ignored, outraged. The veins on his forehead and neck were
swelled to bursting, his big hands opened and shut with an odd, slow
movement. Lex Sangerly, sitting in the seat beside Quintell, watched
him curiously. From behind the curtains of a second-story window,
Dot and Mrs. Liggs looked down terrified at the mob of infuriated
men.

Warburton’s eyes sought the group of cow-punchers again. He stepped
down off the chair and reached them in two strides. A few curt words
sent them hurrying off to a stable around the nearest corner. Then,
his jaw set determinedly, the sheriff elbowed his way through the
crowd to the side of Quintell’s machine.

“I’m warnin’ every man here ag’in startin’ anything,” he shouted.
“As sheriff of this county, I’ll enforce the law if I got to shoot
to do it. Understand that! An’ if I can’t do it, there’s national
guards that kin. Keep away from Huntington an’ his ranch, if you
ain’t lookin’ for trouble.” He turned to Quintell, who stood eying
him venomously. “As for you, Mr. Man, if you don’t want to be
throwed in for inspirin’ violence, you’d better git a-goin’. Drive
on, or I’ll show you what kind of an official you got to deal with!”

Quintell hesitated; then he slid reluctantly into his seat. As the
car started moving off, he fastened his fiery gaze on Warburton.

“We’ll meet again, sheriff,” he snarled back. “You can’t bluff me.
You may protect a crook, but you won’t get away with it—not if I can
stop it! Huntington goes. Remember that!”

The cow-punchers of the Las Animas ranch came spurring into the
street at that moment, and at Warburton’s orders began dispersing
the crowd. A little later, while Constable Mitchell was indignantly
condemning the sheriff’s action to a group of Quintell’s supporters
in the hotel office, Warburton entered and placed him under arrest
and marched him off to the camp’s jail. Relieving him of his keys,
the sheriff locked the fellow in a cell and placed two riders on
guard.

“This ain’t very formal, Mitchell,” he said grimly, “’cos I ain’t
got time to monkey with warrants and citations. You kin take yore
pick whether you turn in yore star or git yanked up before the grand
jury.”


CHAPTER XXII—A SHOWDOWN

The day passed slowly. It was a day throbbing with threat and
tragedy on the eve of happening. Night fell, but there was no
noticeable change in the situation. Legitimate places of business
closed early; and singularly enough the usual crowds that streamed
up and down the main street were absent, the dance halls and
gambling hells deserted, the camp strangely, ominously peaceful.

For one thing, public sentiment against Lemuel Huntington had
crystallized rather than abated. Sheriff Warburton’s drastic action
together with his threat to call for the militia in the event he
could not handle the disorder, stirred the Quintell forces to
violent hatred. What inflamed them most was the fact that he had
dispatched a number of his deputized cow-punchers to guard the
Huntington ranch. That the official was protecting a criminal and
not taking steps to capture that criminal, became the burden of the
Quintell element’s cry in order to win over to their side the
minority law-abiding population of the town.

During the afternoon a number of incidents had occurred which did
anything but relieve the tension. The first of these was the arrival
of a desperately wounded horseman. He came riding up the street,
half hanging out of his saddle, semiconscious, a gaping wound in his
side. He proved to be one of the six expert gunmen sent by Quintell
to dispossess and murder the discoverers of the Billy Geerusalem
bonanza strike. He died, and the name of his slayer died with him.
Quintell, raging in his office, waited for the return of the other
five. When they did not report, he had Big George Rankin take two
automobile loads of men to the scene, with instructions to seize the
claims at all cost. Rankin came back an hour later, stating that
they had been stopped by a body of armed cowboys patrolling the
plains in the neighborhood of the Huntington ranch.

Another significant move, traceable to the emergency methods and
industry of Sheriff Warburton, was the sudden appearance in
Geerusalem of a growing army of these self-same cowboys. They began
arriving at intervals, throughout the afternoon, riding up the
street singly and in pairs, in dozens and by the score. They came
heavily armed, delegation after delegation of them, grim-faced,
wiry, silent men who feared neither man nor devil. Every ranch in
that far-flung, fertile hill territory—known as the Green Range—to
the north of Soapweed Plains, became represented as the day wore on.
For Warburton had dispatched Las Animas riders speeding through the
desert, appealing to the ranch owners for help to nip in the bud the
reign of rioting and bloodshed which threatened to sweep the camp.

In the midst of this menacing state of affairs, Lex Sangerly had
returned from an inspection of the Lucky Boy placer group, at the
mouth of Geerusalem Gulch, the conviction now firm in his mind that
the Quintell outfit had salted the ground over which the proposed
branch line of the Mohave & Southwestern must of necessity pass to
reach its terminal in the settlement. He had watched Harrison taking
samples of the gravel, here and there, and had seen those samples
turned over to the assayer—himself retaining duplicates of each, for
purposes of a check-up.

It had all seemed part of a clean transaction, except when he had
manifested the desire of himself choosing a second test of the
ground. To this Quintell politely demurred, going so far as to
declare that he and his associates were in no wise eager for a track
to cross the claims, since it would interfere greatly with the
extensive work they planned. He pointed out, too, that the matter of
purchase had come from the railroad company, that he and his
partners had made no overtures with a view to disposing of a right
of way.

While Lex was waiting at the Miners’ Hotel for the assayer’s report
on the samples, his father—Western manager of the road—arrived from
Los Angeles unexpectedly. Sangerly, senior, a clean, sharp-eyed man
of fifty, with a close-cropped mustache and thick, stiff, iron-gray
hair, was accompanied by the State traffic manager, a Mr. Hudson, a
quiet, mild type of person whose one distinctive trait was his
ability to listen and say nothing. Lex’s father, it seems, had
determined, following receipt of his son’s telegram the day before,
on taking a personal hand in the negotiations for the purchase of
the Lucky Boy right of way.

After spending some time in a happy renewal of his old friendship
with little Mrs. Liggs and a talk with Dot, Mr. Sangerly,
accompanied by Hudson and Lex, held a conference with the owners of
the placer claims in Jule Quintell’s offices. The certificates of
assay showed the ground to be rich—thanks to Harrison’s precision in
the old-time art of salting. As Lex had surmised, the price demanded
by the Lucky Boy coterie for the privilege of laying the M. & S.
tracks across their fabulous claims was correspondingly large. It
was excessive, staggering in the circumstances—fifty thousand
dollars.

The conference came to an end without an agreement being reached.
The railroad men would take the proposition under advisement, they
said. The coterie smiled pleasantly; they had the company in the
hollow of their hand. It would have to buy. There was no other way
to enter Geerusalem except through Geerusalem Gulch.

Briefly, when night settled on that waspish little desert gold camp,
Quintell and his circle were apparently in command of the situation.
First, they had the population thoroughly aroused against Lemuel
Huntington—the man himself was in hiding for his life—and it would
be only a question of time before he could be induced to dispose of
his holdings in a community inimical to him. Again, they had the
Mohave & Southwestern in a position where it must either meet their
terms or build the terminal out on a rocky wash far beyond the
confines of the camp. As for Sheriff Warburton, Quintell cursed him,
laughed at his hick methods, boasted to his confederates that he was
considering having the official ridden out of town on a rail.

However, with the success of his double plots all but realized, Jule
Quintell worried. He wondered whether Tinnemaha Pete and Jerome
Liggs had been dispatched. He couldn’t believe that the other five
expert gunmen had suffered the fate of the one who had died without
speaking.

As has been said, it was mysteriously quiet in Geerusalem on this
night. Few were about, and save for the tramp of horses’ hoofs,
announcing to listening ears the presence of Warburton’s
cow-punchers patrolling the settlement, and the din of orchestras
from the brilliantly lighted dance halls, one would have readily
affirmed that the sheriff’s summary action had restored law and
order to a hitherto unknown degree. The truth was, Geerusalem waited
in the security of its home, restless and vengeful, thirsting to
riot—waited on orders from Big George Rankin and watched the clock.
The dynamite squad was abroad.

Shortly before eight, a little old man came stumping out of the
darkness of a side street. He paused in the flood of light pouring
out of a saloon. It was Tinnemaha Pete. He looked about him,
confused. Though he knew the vast Mohave Desert as a child did its
rudimentary A B C’s, he knew little or nothing about Geerusalem,
particularly by night. Just now, he gazed timidly into the saloon,
stroking his thin beard with a tremulous hand. A man came out of the
place presently, and the desertarian stopped him to ask where Jule
Quintell lived.

Having got his directions, he stumbled away through the dark and
found the neat, rock bungalow built on the crest of a small hill
that partially overlooked the camp. Light shone through the spacious
windows, and the sound of an operatic selection being played on a
phonograph came to his ears. He fixed the location of the house
firmly in his capricious old brain and hobbled back the way he had
come. Not remembering having ever seen the man Jule Quintell, he
wondered curiously what this popular broker, the boss of Geerusalem,
looked like.

At about the same time, Dot, in the parlor of the Miners’ Hotel, was
reminding Lex Sangerly that he had an appointment with Billy Gee at
the home of Jule Quintell. But Lex was wrought up over the
uncompromising attitude of the broker in the matter of the right of
way transaction and held out against giving him even the
satisfaction of a visit.

“But I wanted to accompany you, Mr. Sangerly, and we’ll ask your
father to go along, too,” she urged.

He looked at her in surprise. Then he laughed. “Why, you wouldn’t
think of such a thing, Miss Huntington, and I know it! You just want
me to meet Billy Gee, and——”

She shook her head. “But I do. I’m going to confront him. I’m going
to accuse him of having inspired the work of that mob last night.”
She broke off, then resumed in another voice: “My poor father hiding
at Blue Mud Spring, like a criminal, both of us driven from home,
dreading to go back to that ruined house! Don’t you understand how I
feel?” She looked at him, and he noted the tragic, hunted expression
in her eyes. “I feel, Mr. Sangerly, that something must come of this
visit. I can’t tell you just why, but I have a premonition that you
are going to be indebted to—to Billy Gee.”

Lex gazed soberly at her for some seconds. “Very well, we’ll go,” he
said at last; “and I promised you I’d not have an officer at my
elbow, didn’t I?”

A little later, accompanied by the elder Sangerly, Lex and Dot set
out for the Quintell bungalow, the hotel porter leading the way. The
spacious windows were still ablaze, the phonograph still executing
its operatic serenade. Harrison, Quintell’s man Friday, opened the
door for them, and ushered them into the large living room,
furnished with a magnificence so wholly unexpected in this desert as
to bewilder visitors.

Quintell entered shortly from the library where he sat reading. He
was dressed in a rich lounging robe and smoked a long calabash pipe.
He greeted them with his most winning smile and, seating himself,
let his eyes rest on Dot. As the preliminary talk proceeded, he kept
glancing at her frequently, his look one of undisguised approval and
admiration.

“I am deeply interested in the novel I hear you’re writing, Miss
Huntington,” he said. “I am informed you’ve paid me the honor of
using me as a character in the book. Mr. Sangerly has perhaps told
you that I’ll purchase five hundred copies.”

“Rest assured the character will be true to life, at any rate,”
replied Dot simply.

“Ah—yes, doubtless!” smiled Quintell, and went on: “I regret very
much to hear that you suffered at the hands of that mob, last night,
Miss Huntington. Personally, I’m opposed to violence of that sort.
It would seem to me that in this case where your father has been
found to be on intimate terms with Billy Gee, instead of venting its
spite by such destructive methods, the populace should insist——”

Dot flushed with anger at the palpable deceit in the man’s demeanor.
“Pardon me, Mr. Quintell,” she broke in, “but I understand from a
reliable source that you were instrumental in this violence which
you now pretend to deprecate. I came here this evening to find out
if you are man enough to show your hand.” Her eyes were on him
fixedly, fiery.

He calmly removed his calabash from his mouth. “My dear young lady,”
he replied in measured tones, “it strikes me that you might have
visited me at my office, instead of disturbing the peace of my home
in this manner. However, allow me to tell you that, having nothing
to gain and not harboring any ill feeling against your father, I
certainly would not urge the action taken by that mob. Perhaps
you’ll now tell me who your reliable source of information was?”

The girl was silent, studying him wrathfully.

“Billy Gee told us,” asserted Lex, speaking for the first time; “and
he seemed to know what he was talking about,” he added
significantly. His father turned wide, horrified eyes on him.

“Billy Gee!” cried Quintell. He threw back his head and laughed
aloud. “In Heaven’s name! Is it possible that the officials of the
Mohave & Southwestern are also involved along with Lem Huntington in
the heroic exploits of this romantic train robber? Tell me,” he
continued tauntingly, “have these reported train holdups I’ve read
so much about been a little stunt to advertise your road, similar to
‘Death Valley’ Scott’s transcontinental run a few years ago—to snare
the gullible tourists to California?”

Lex winced at the insult. “You may draw whatever conclusion you
choose, Quintell,” he said coolly. “The point is that Miss
Huntington is here to speak with you about——”

“I have already answered Miss Huntington’s question,” cut in the
other, and there was a trace of a sneer in his voice. “I don’t feel
myself called upon to refute the statement of a common criminal.
Another thing, the citizens’ committee, of which I am chairman,
decided at a meeting this afternoon to give Mr. Huntington
twenty-four hours—or until six o’clock to-morrow evening—to dispose
of his property, settle up his affairs, and leave Soapweed Plains.
We have found him undesirable. We do not want him here. What steps
will be taken, should he fail to comply with the order——”

A cry of horror burst from Dot. She rose to her feet, pale and
trembling. She stared wildly, dumbly, from Lex to his father, then
fearfully at the broker.

“Good God, Quintell!” gasped young Sangerly. “You certainly aren’t
going to be a party to this atrocity? It’s unjust—it’s criminal,
man! Huntington is as innocent of these charges as you are. It’s a
damnable frame-up. I’ll stake my life on his honesty.”

Quintell resumed his pipe, lit it, and shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, I’m not the whole show here. The ruling was made in open
meeting, by unanimous vote. So far as the disposal of the property
is concerned, I’ll buy it off of him—even though he turned me down,
once. But I won’t pay a fancy price for it—it’s not worth it.” He
blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “As a matter of fact, I
wouldn’t touch it, if you turned down the right of way purchase. I
couldn’t. Money is tight right now.”

Dot, struck speechless by this appalling announcement, now found her
voice. Defiance flashed from her eyes; her pretty face set with a
furious purpose. “Mr. Quintell,” she cried, “you and your committee
may continue to issue orders. You may make whatever decisions you
wish. I defy you to put them into execution. I’ll take it personally
on myself to see that my father leaves the plains in the morning.
But I remain. Do you understand? I remain! I want to see how many
men in Geerusalem will take sides against a woman. And when it suits
me to sell the Huntington ranch——”

“I’ll buy it!” snapped out the elder Sangerly. He said it harshly,
violently.

A sudden tense silence fell. Quintell straightened noticeably in his
chair. His teeth clenched hard over the calabash. The Western
manager of the Mohave & Southwestern was watching him, with the
sagacious, estimating look of the hard-headed business man.

For a long moment, both men eyed each other steadily. Then a cynical
smile parted the broker’s lips.

“Assuming that you’ll buy it, Mr. Sangerly, may I ask what you
propose doing with it—particularly when you realize that your
purchase of the Huntington ranch means our absolute refusal to grant
your company right of way privileges across the Lucky Boy ground
into Geerusalem?” He paused, his smile vanishing, his eyes narrowing
as he disclosed his hand. “And right here, let me say that you may
consider our negotiations held up pending the complete settlement of
the Huntington scandal and the final disposition of this ranch.”

Harrison, sitting in an obscure corner of the room, caught his
breath, amazed at his master’s rash move. Sangerly represented a
powerful corporation.

The railroad manager chuckled deep down in his throat. Open
opposition and threat were what he delighted to cope with; and in
the present case it was simply a matter of outwitting the enemy with
its own knowledge of facts.

“Since you have taken such a bold stand in this thing, why not go on
and tell us your underlying motive, Mr. Quintell? Why not enlighten
us, for instance, with the information that, having learned of an
immensely rich gold strike on the land owned by Miss Huntington’s
father, you are reaching out after it—trying to get possession by
methods not much better than those employed by your rascally friend,
the claim jumper?”

Quintell sprang from his chair with an oath. His face was drawn with
fury. He took one step toward Mr. Sangerly, then halted
irresolutely.

Dot stared at the speaker in blank astonishment. Lex had risen and
stood watching Quintell, while Harrison made preparations to go to
his employer’s assistance at the first sign of trouble.

The elder Sangerly, now got deliberately to his feet. He pointed an
authoritative finger at the boss of Geerusalem and shot out in sharp
tones: “I’m buying that ranch, Quintell. You may consider the right
of way negotiations ended, absolutely. There’ll be no M. & S.
terminal in Geerusalem. If Geerusalem wishes to do business with my
road, it can haul its freight and stage its passengers to and from
our trains. If we can’t do any better, we’ll erect our depot and
establish our yards on the Huntington ranch, and you people can
bridge the four-mile gap the best way you see fit——”

“Oh, we can, can we?” broke in Quintell nastily. “Let me tell you
something, Sangerly! You just start that Hawthorne, Nevada, game of
giving this town the go-by, and I’ll see that your gangs’ll never
drive another spike.”

“I’ll take that challenge,” said the other. “And now, let me tell
_you_ something. The Billy Geerusalem claims are so rich that the
new camp of Liggs, that I propose to start on the Huntington ranch,
will be the metropolis of Soapweed Plains inside of a month. Do you
happen to know Mrs. Agatha Liggs?”

Quintell did not reply. There was a crafty, triumphant glint in his
eyes that somehow did not blend with his uncertainty of manner.

“Well, I do,” went on Lex’s father. “And I’ve had a talk with her.
That’s how I know why you want that ranch. That’s why you’ll never
get it, Quintell. Do you know who owns the _Searchlight_ now?”

Here, the broker found an opening. He had regained much of his
poise. “I always get what I go after, Sangerly,” he said grimly.
“Buy, and I start legal action. You’re not dealing with a hick,
don’t forget that! I have deeds showing transfer of those mining
claims by the locators—the original locators. I’ll tie your
operations up by injunction, as tight as a drum.”

Mr. Sangerly fixed his steely eyes on him. “Was one of those
original locators Jerome Liggs?” he asked.

“Jerome Liggs is a criminal at large—wanted for the robbery of the
Marysville city treasury. I don’t deal with criminals except to
notify the sheriff, and——” He broke off.

Standing facing the door leading into the hall, a movement of one of
the portières attracted his eye. He stared at the gleaming barrel of
a six-shooter that suddenly flashed into view, covering him, and at
the tall, slim figure of the man back of it. His eyes widened,
remained fixed in fearful fascination on the newcomer.

The latter advanced into the room and paused a few steps away from
the broker. His glance swept the room. It rested a moment on Dot and
returned to Quintell. The boss of Geerusalem paled, crumpled under
it. Dot’s breath came fast, and a blush rose to her cheeks as her
eyes rested, for the second time that day, on the hero of her
romantic dreams.

“I’m Billy Gee, Miles,” said the outlaw laconically, gazing steadily
at Quintell.


CHAPTER XXIII—THE UPRISING

“You don’t look awful glad to see an old friend, Miles,” said Billy
Gee suavely, after a short pause. “An’ so you’re Jule Quintell, the
boss of Geerusalem, I’ve heerd so much about, eh? They tell me you
bin runnin’ things to suit yoreself, an’ gettin’ away with it. Like
you got away with it that other time, eh, Miles? Oh, Pete!” he
called out suddenly. “Come on in an’ see who’s here!”

Out of the hall behind him trotted Tinnemaha Pete. He stopped,
squinting at the visitors.

“Oho! If it ain’t you, Dot! What’re ye doin’—an’ Mr. Spangaree, or
I’m a liar! That’s yore ol’ man, ain’t it?” His glance fell on
Quintell, then he shuffled up to him and peered boldly into his
face. “Billy,” he burst out, giggling, “you ol’ son-of-a-gun, you
ketched him! Kill him! Go on an’ kill him——”

The outlaw raised his hand restrainingly. “I bin watchin’ around for
you ever since that time, Miles,” he said, addressing the broker. “I
oughter shoot you, jest like Pete says. Folks think I’m a pretty
tough cuss. Mebby I am. Anyhow, I’m puttin’ you over the hurdles.
Now, you tell these people the name you know me by. Go on!”

“His—Jerome Liggs,” faltered Quintell, with an effort.

“Jerome!” gasped Lex. He took a quick step toward the bandit and
stared at him with wide eyes. The elder Sangerly frowned
bewilderedly. The man who had, for three years, rifled the trains of
the M. & S.!

“Now, Miles, tell ’em what you done to the Lucky Boy claims last
night!” went on Billy Gee grimly. He jammed the menacing six-shooter
into the man’s midriff. “Tell ’em how you salted ’em—everything!”

While the broker began in a reluctant, hesitating voice, Harrison
edged quietly out of the room. He sped out through the back door of
the bungalow and thence down the dark hillside, racing like mad for
the main street to arouse the camp.

Meanwhile, Miles, alias Jule Quintell, confessed. His audacity,
self-assurance, arrogance, vanished with that confession.
Confronting him, holding him at the point of a gun, was a man who
held a long-standing grudge against him, none other than the
notorious desperado, Billy Gee, the man on whom he had shunted the
crime of robbing the Marysville city treasury.

Billy Gee now turned to Dot and the two Sangerlys. “Folks,” he said
evenly. “Miles here jest told you that Jerome Liggs robbed the
Marysville city treasury. That’s why I’m Billy Gee. To-night I’m
turnin’ him over to Sheriff Warburton, an’ Tinnemaha Pete—who used
to be janitor of the Marysville city hall—he’ll swear he saw
Treasurer Miles actin’ mighty suspicious in his office, round one
o’clock one night.”

“Will I? Will I?” cried the old desert rat jubilantly. “Reckillect,
Billy, what I told you? I seen him puttin’ a package——Kill him,
Billy! Why don’t you go on an’ kill him! Don’t be a damn fool! D’ye
hear?”

Shortly afterward, the door of Quintell’s desert mansion opened, and
its owner stepped onto the veranda. Behind him came Billy Gee,
followed by the rest. They set out down the terraced grounds for the
street—a strange procession surely, five men and a girl. Dot reached
the outlaw’s side and touched his arm.

“Jerome,” she whispered. “I’m afraid. You must not take the risk.
You must not meet Sheriff Warburton. He’s looking for you. Don’t you
understand, Jerome?” There was a little catch in her voice.

“There’s no need worryin’,” he replied. “If I have to skip out
sudden tell Lex I want to see him at the ranch the furst thing in
the mornin’. An’ you come along, won’t you? That other chap musta
sneaked out after help, but we’ll fool him,” he added.

She kept pace with him, Quintell moodily plodding on before them.
Once she looked up at Billy Gee. There were fine lines in his face,
she thought, despite the fact that she could only just make out his
features in the uncertain light reflecting from the business
thoroughfares, some blocks away. Presently, she found herself
thrilling over the realization that she was walking beside a
popularly supposed “bad man” in action, one who, through her
influence, had abandoned his lawless career to get back into the
ranks of the law-abiding. But the strange surge of pride she felt
was fleeting. The utter hopelessness of the effort struck her with
full force. He was a fugitive. He would remain a fugitive until he
was captured; even now, Sheriff Warburton was in the country to
capture him. Again, she laid her hand on his arm—clutched it.

“Jerome, please! For—for my sake, Jerome, don’t meet Warburton. Let
this wretch go. It is too late for revenge. Please—Jerome!” she
urged wildly.

He looked down at her and smiled. He opened his mouth to speak but
the words were never uttered. A deafening explosion on the main
street ahead, broke horribly on the still night, shook the ground
under their feet, and brought them to a sudden halt. Quintell,
seizing the opportunity to escape, started forward, then stopped in
his tracks as his captor’s revolver prodded him in the back.

At that moment, a two-story stone building standing in the
brilliantly illuminated center of the camp crumpled before their
eyes, crashed into ruins with a muffled roar. A great cloud of dust
shot into the air.

“The _Searchlight_! They’ve—they’ve dynamited the _Searchlight_!”
cried Lex aghast.

“Good heaven!” burst out the elder Sangerly. “Babcock—the men, Lex!
They might have been at work—some of them.” A furious cry broke from
him. He sprang at Quintell and caught him by the throat. “You
devil!” he panted. “Not content with trying to rob us, you destroy
our property—the newspaper we wrested from your filthy clutches. You
miserable——”

“Father!” Lex dragged the other back forcibly. “Listen! This is no
time for that sort of thing. We are in danger, without making
matters worse. The camp is backing him, backing him to a man.”

Quintell overheard him. “I’m glad you appreciate that fact, Mr.
Sangerly,” he remarked with a harsh chuckle. “If I may be permitted
to say it, you’re all in imminent danger of your lives. I would
advise you to see that I’m set free. Otherwise, I won’t be
responsible for consequences. This man is a criminal. It is
ridiculous to believe that he will turn me over to the sheriff—to
the very man who is looking for him. He’s bluffing.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Billy Gee curtly. “Come on—get a-goin’!
If yore friends start shootin’, so do I. I’ve bin waitin’ for this
chance too long, Miles. I’m goin’ through with it now. Better you
take the sidewalk, Dot,” he added gently. “There’s trouble comin’, I
reckon. Tell Lex to hurry on ahead to the Miners’ Hotel an’ notify
Warburton we’re on our way. He’ll know where to meet us. Take down
this back street, Miles, an’ watch yore step!”

The street he indicated was a deserted back thoroughfare paralleling
the main one of the camp. The rear of the Miners’ Hotel faced it,
and a little distance farther on, was the gate leading into the yard
back of the dry-goods store through which Billy Gee had flitted on
many a midnight to visit his mother.

With Quintell obeying the outlaw’s command, the group turned to
enter the side street. Their footfalls rang out sharply on the rocky
ground. Following the explosion, a profound silence had fallen on
the settlement, broken only by the sound of galloping hoofs as
Warburton’s deputies dashed for the scene of destruction.

Suddenly a wild shout rose out of the gloom of the side street. It
swelled into a roar, coming from all directions. In a twinkling, the
thoroughfare became alive with men, pouring from every conceivable
hiding place in the vicinity. Lex and his father cried out a
warning. The former caught Dot by the arm.

“Come! Run! They’ll trample us!” he shouted.

But she shook him off, her eyes flashing with a resolute fire. “I’m
all right. Take care of your father and Pete. Get them away!” Her
voice was harsh, commanding.

The outlaw gave a short laugh. Lex hesitated an instant, then
started off on a run for the sidewalk, dragging his father with him.
They collided with the onrushing horde of furious men and went
wallowing. Tinnemaha Pete, his old brain grasping the peril of the
situation at the first alarm, escaped the crush and fled like mad
for the Miners’ Hotel.

Meanwhile, Billy Gee’s disengaged hand had fastened on Quintell’s
coat collar. He jerked the boss around out of the treacherous
darkness and headed him for the brilliantly lighted main street, a
block away. His six-shooter was boring into his prisoner’s back,
cutting into the flesh.

“Talk to ’em, Miles!” he hissed into the other’s ear. “Talk to ’em
fast, Miles, or I let go!”

Quintell put up a trembling hand. His face was ashen, drawn with
fear. “Men, he’s got me. Stop, men! He’s got me! Can’t you see?
Stand back! For God’s sake, men, stand back!” he panted wildly.

The mob halted its forward rush—frenzied, baffled. It circled just
out of arm’s reach of the trio, a solid mass of surging, lawless
humanity that itched for the letting of blood, gripping their
murderous weapons, filling the night with their cries and curses.
Like stampeded cattle, they milled and strained around the three,
shouting their foul threats and insults at the girl and the outlaw,
reassuring their master, waiting with wolfish eagerness for the
moment when they could fall upon their prey and destroy it.

“Fellers,” proclaimed Billy Gee, his tones cool and deliberate,
“this here is a personal matter ’twixt me an’ him. His name ain’t
Quintell. It’s Gene Miles. He robbed the Marysville city treasury
three years ago an’ laid the job on me. Gangway, men, gangway!” he
added, starting Quintell onward.

“He lies! He lies!” cried Harrison, shouldering his way to the
front. “This is Billy Gee, the bandit. He held us up—burglarized
Jule Quintell’s home. He’s taking him down to the office to make him
open the safe. Are you going to let him get away with it, men? Are
you letting him pull off this rough stuff before your eyes, in a
civilized community? One man against a thousand? Are you going to
stand for——”

“Talk to ’em, Miles! Talk to ’em!” threatened Billy Gee. “Tell ’em
to fall back an’ let us through. You’ll go before I do, Miles. I got
a bead on yore heart. I’ll be good for one bullet—maybe more.”

Again, the broker called on that frantic crowd, supplicated it
vehemently in an agony of terror. Snarling its hatred, its ranks
parted grudgingly, then closed in behind where Dot brought up the
rear with Billy Gee’s other revolver tight gripped in her hand.

Carried away by the desperateness of the outlaw’s plight, Dot had
whisked the six-shooter from the holster of her romantic hero,
resolved to back him in his fight, to perish with him, if necessary.
Just now, she kept her gun trained on the bank of vicious faces that
crowded after her. There was a fire in her eyes and a determination
on her pretty face, far more eloquent than any words.

They turned into the main street finally, and continued on down,
moving slowly, the multitude pressing in on them, raging around
them, menacing them still. They passed the great heap of débris
which had once represented the home of the Geerusalem _Searchlight_.
As they reached the corner, out of the cross street dashed a troop
of cow-punchers, with Sheriff Warburton at their head. Others
followed, thundering down upon the mob from front and rear, scores
of the grim-faced riders of the range waiting only for the signal to
open fire on the enemy.

“Men of Geerusalem, as sheriff of San Buenaventura County, I order
you to disperse!” shouted Warburton in ominous tones.

The mob halted. It stood hemmed in by mounted men, surrender being
the only alternative left it, save that of bloody resistance. There
was a tense, heavy silence.

Billy Gee, followed by Dot, thrust Quintell forward until he stood
at the sheriff’s stirrup.

“Hullo, Billy!” said Warburton curtly.

“Hullo, Bob!” replied Billy Gee. “Here’s yore man. What d’you want
done with him?”

“Herd him on down to the hotel, an’ I’ll——”

“This is an outrage, sheriff,” broke from Quintell.

“Collusion!” cried Harrison, at the top of his lungs. “Warburton, I
demand the arrest of Billy Gee, notorious outlaw and criminal at
large. Men, they’re in cahoots! It’s a frame-up! A political
frame-up!”

A sudden wave of fury swept over the massed body of the mob. Big
George Rankin’s face glared murderously for one instant out of its
depths.

“Altogether, gang! Give the cow-chasers hell!” he yelled, opening
fire on the nearest riders as he spoke.

In a twinkling, the battle was on. The street was converted into a
bloody arena reverberating with the roar of blazing six-shooters and
the shouts and curses of frenzied men. Taking advantage of the
moment, Billy Gee thrust Dot in front of him, and with Quintell
leading the way, fled in a hail of bullets for the Miners’ Hotel.
The conflict raged on fiercely, the mob fighting with desperate
abandon to break through the cordon of mounted deputies. Up and down
the main street dashed terrified horses, riderless. Other
cow-punchers, thirsting to avenge their fellows’ deaths, filled up
the ranks. The street became littered with dead and dying.
Stubbornly, furiously, the Quintell element fought. Then Big George
Rankin passed out, a curse on his lips.

Sheriff Warburton raised his voice over the tumult:

“Las Animas an’ Bar-G men, close in there! Ride ’em down!”

The two cow-puncher outfits swung into line and set spurs to their
horses. Into the mob they drove, head on, hurling it back, trampling
its members under hoof. Like some irresistible tide, they swept on
recklessly, fatally; and the rioters began to give way, to retreat,
slowly at first, then with increasing haste, before the savage
advance. Presently they broke and fled for the security of the
sidewalks, pouring into saloon and dance hall and gambling den,
availing themselves of every means of escape. The street cleared as
if by magic. In the dust lay the dead, Big George Rankin and
Harrison among them. Through the camp sped bodies of horsemen
bearing the sinister message:

“Lights out! Keep inside or be shot on sight!”

Warburton, bleeding from a nasty scalp wound, reached the hotel
finally. He was in a fiery mood. He rushed Quintell upstairs to a
room, handcuffed him, and put a guard over him. Then he came down
again, wiping the blood from the side of his face, and walked over
to where Billy Gee and Dot were standing.

“You know what we agreed, Billy? I got to git patched up an’ I’ll be
busy most o’ the night,” he said tersely.

The outlaw nodded. “I’m goin’ out to the Huntington ranch to-night,
Bob. The agreement stands.”

“You kin expect me there round noon, Billy,” said Warburton, turning
away.

“You’ll find me waitin’, sheriff.”

“Send them cow-punchers in. Tell ’em to report here.”

Half an hour later, a hostler brought two saddle horses up to the
hotel entrance. Lex Sangerly and his father stood on the sidewalk
along with Mrs. Liggs, and watched as Billy Gee and Dot mounted and
rode down the quiet street, bound for the lonely, desolate ranch on
Soapweed Plains. Mrs. Liggs was weeping disconsolately into her
handkerchief, a pathetic little figure, bent and broken with a
sorrow she had never earned.

The moon was just rising, flooding the gaunt land with its soft,
compassionate glow. There was a subtle charm in that desert realm; a
strange beauty in the night. But Dot was oblivious to these
enchantments, ideal though they were for tender words of love, for
the delicious ecstasies of that first embrace, that first kiss. Her
heart was brimful of grief, weighed down with an overwhelming
sadness greater than she had ever known. Billy Gee was surrendering
to the law in the morning. He was passing out of her life, forever.


CHAPTER XXIV—WARBURTON GETS SQUARE

Walking their horses down Geerusalem Gulch, they went, riding side
by side. Neither spoke. They passed the lonely, dilapidated rock hut
where Lennox, wounded, had applied for help on that exciting night
of his flight from camp, and crossed the monumented gravel bar that
was to be known thereafter as Quintell’s Unlucky Boy. Ahead of them
spread the great, gray floor of Soapweed Plains, looking under the
sheen of the moon like some placid ghostly sea. From out of the
immeasurable distances came the pitiful howl of a wild dog foraging
hopelessly for food.

As they reached the point in the gulch where it began to spill its
rocky bottom over the bosom of the plains, Dot turned her head and
looked at Billy Gee. Her face was pale, her lips drawn.

“Why did you ever do it, Jerome?” she asked in dead tones.

He bent a sharp glance at her. Her cheeks shone wet in the
moonlight.

“I’m glad now I did, Dot,” he said simply. “But he had me dead to
rights—arrested. I couldn’t help it. It was my only way out. An’ I
wanted to save you folks, an’ there was Lex bein’ swindled on that
placer proposition. I wouldn’t stand for——”

“How did you know?”

“I seen him. It was right out yonder,” he said, pointing back up the
wash where he had overheard Quintell and Harrison discussing the
salting of the Lucky Boy group the night before. He explained the
incident briefly to her. “He lit a match, an’ I got a look at his
face an’ knowed him. You can’t ever guess how I felt about it, Dot,”
he went on, in a harsh voice. “Here was the man who had made me a
bandit, the man I bin huntin’ and huntin’ for three years. When he
planted that evidence against me to clear himself an’ make me out
the thief, I was one of his clerks, an’ I’d already bin talked about
to run against him at the next election. That’s why he done it, I
reckon. Well, it’s all over now.”

“But Pete knew all about it. Oh, Jerome, why didn’t you let him
swear out a warrant for Quintell’s arrest!” cried Dot miserably.

“Poor ol’ Pete! He’s scary an’ funny, an’ more’n likely they’d think
he was jest imaginin’ things. No, Dot! It’s better the way it turned
out.” He paused, then continued in slow, plaintive tones: “After I
got away from them night riders this mornin’, I kept lookin’ back. I
was afraid they’d drop in at the ranch ag’in—an’ my mother was
there. An’—well, you was out yonder, too, Dot. Anyway, I was worried
an’ wasn’t watchin’ for Warburton. That’s how he come to git me.

“He took me over to Blue Mud Spring, an’ me an’ him an’ yore dad
rode back to the ranch together. Then I told him about the
Marysville robbery, an’ Pete tells his story of how he seen Miles
leavin’ the city hall with a valise, round one o’clock, the night
before the robbery. There was a lot more said, for instance, how
Miles, or Quintell, as he calls himself, was tryin’ to drive you
folks out o’ the country, an’ how he’d salted these claims to hold
up the railroad comp’ny. Then I got the idea to git Miles, myself. I
told Warburton I figgered that much was comin’ to me, seein’ as how
Miles had made me a criminal. Yore dad took sides with me, Dot. Yes,
he did. An’ Warburton agreed. He put me on my honor.”

He laughed. “Everything’s turned out dandy. An’ the Billy Geerusalem
claims is goin’ to be split three ways, between Pete, my mother, an’
yore dad. That’s all bin fixed, Dot, an’ better days are comin’.”

As he finished speaking, he reached out suddenly, and his hand
closed hard over hers. Her face was averted, streaming with silent
tears. She was gazing mutely toward the boundless stretches of
desolation beyond which lay the now invisible violet and yellow
scallop of range that had formed the background of all her past
romantic dreams. She faced him suddenly, a sob bursting from her,
clutching his hand spasmodically.

“It’s not too late, Jerome. It’s not too late,” she cried. “You can
escape. You have to! He must not take you. Do you know what it’ll
mean? The penitentiary for life! Dear God! Never to get free! To
count the long, long years passing, to grow old and wasted, to die
and find your freedom in the grave. Jerome, he must not take you.
You owe it to yourself, to your mother, to me! Jerome, for my sake,
if for no other reason!”

She jerked her horse to an abrupt stop. Gone was her restraint. She
was weeping passionately, appealingly, with hysterical abandon. He
reined in beside her, leaned out of the saddle, caught her in his
arms, and drew her to him. His breath was coming from him in great
gasps.

“Dot—darling!” he choked hoarsely.

Her heart opened then, and she poured into his ear the strength of
her love for him, all her secret hopes, her fears, her mounting
despair, in one desperate outpouring of entreaty.

“Don’t you remember, Jerome, dearest?” she sobbed distractedly.
“‘You poor, wounded wild animal,’ I called you. I wanted you then.
You wandered out of my dreamland, a part of my dreams. You came
living—dying, to me. You belonged to me. You belong to me now—now
that my heart is breaking for you, dear.” She stroked his face
fiercely with her hands. “To-night, I’ll speak to father. You must
be on your way to the Mexican border by midnight. We’ll sell the
ranch and the claims and follow, with your mother as soon as——”

She broke off. Through the dead silence, bearing down on them from
the rear, came the sound of mad hoofs, the pop of a quirt against an
animal’s flanks mingling with the wild, weird cries of a man. Then,
into view loomed a diminutive rider. It was Tinnemaha Pete astride
one of his little burros. Like some grotesque goblin of the night he
came speeding up to them, cackling and sputtering incoherently.

“They tell me ye give up—quit like a dollar watch. Quit like a——” he
screeched insanely, jerking his puffing burro to a stop. “Say it’s a
danged lie, Billy! Billy, d’ye hear? Don’t tell me ye ain’t got the
guts. Don’t tell me, my Billy boy ain’t got the guts. The son of
Agatha! D’ye mark that, Dot? D’ye want—d’ye want to—d’ye want to
kill me, Billy? To know—to know the buzzards’ll be peckin’ my
innards outer me, sooner’n they oughter?”

He waved his skinny arms, a curious spasm of emotion sweeping over
him, racking his shriveled little body.

“Jerome, did you hear? Oh, how can you refuse? How can you—— And
Sheriff Warburton would understand. He is so good and generous.
Please, Jerome, darling! Do as I say,” pleaded Dot passionately.

It was nearly midnight when Lemuel Huntington admitted them. Dot was
pale and drawn of face, her eyes filled with suffering. Tinnemaha
Pete puffed furiously at his old pipe and muttered endlessly to
himself. Billy Gee sat down, bowed his head, and stared at the
floor. Presently the girl brought up a chair and, taking her place
close beside him, leaned her cheek against his arm and wept.

Lemuel, clad in an old-fashioned night robe, stood and blinked at
them soberly. Throughout that day he had been repairing, where he
could, the damage wrought by the night riders, so that, lacking
certain pieces of furniture destroyed beyond all hope of
restoration, the interior of the house looked much the same as it
always had.

Standing thus, watching the trio, he presently nodded gravely to
himself; for he recalled the agreement Billy Gee had entered into
with Bob Warburton, and he knew without being told that Jule
Quintell’s activities were at an end. Moreover, he was witnessing
the verification of a long-standing suspicion that his Dot was in
love with this outlaw. Without a word, he tiptoed into the little
closet where Lennox lay and closed the door after him.

“It’s hell,” he whispered to the mining engineer, after they had
discussed the situation. “But she’ll ferget it, soon’s she gits back
to her edjucation. That’s one blessing. But ain’t it too bad,
Lennox? You see, he saved my life to-day, when them kiyotes were
takin’ me——”

“He saved mine, too,” broke in the other with a sigh.


The next day dawned finally. The sun rose, gloriously bright, and a
playful little breeze came frolicking merrily out of the northwest.
A lone mocking bird had lingered for one whole hour in the
elderberry tree in the garden, pouring out a beautiful pæan,
heralding to the desolate world its love of life and freedom.

Billy Gee was still at the ranch. He sat on the front porch with
Dot. They sat facing the distant island of chromatic hills where
nestled the camp of Geerusalem, watching the white thread of road
that led to it. Sheriff Warburton would come by that road. Now and
again, the girl would moan pitifully and wring her hands in silent
agony. Every little while, Billy Gee would clasp her close, and he
would kiss her hungrily and whisper fierce words of endearment into
her ear.

Seated on a bench at one end of the porch, was Tinnemaha Pete. Like
a faithful dog grown old and purblind and helpless, he kept his
rheumy eyes riveted on this youthful partner of his who was
determined to keep his promise with the “keys of the penitentiary.”
Never, never had Tinnemaha Pete felt so broken-hearted, so near
death, so desperate. A dark, awful resolution had found a sanctuary
in his fanatical old brain. In the back pocket of his voluminous
overalls lay a loaded revolver.

“An’ they kin hang me after,” he murmured to himself, over and over.
“An’ they kin hang me after. I’ve lived long enough—what? He ain’t.
An’ they kin hang me after. Betcha life, they kin—an’ I’ll laugh at
’em.”

From the direction of the barn came the sounds of Lemuel’s hammer,
restoring the ravages of the mob. He was unusually solemn and
thoughtful. Presently he threw down the hammer and perched himself
on the top rail of the corral and watched the road to Geerusalem.

The hours dragged by, heavy, tragic hours. Eight, nine, ten, eleven
o’clock came and went. At half past eleven, an automobile suddenly
made its appearance out of the far-away island of hills. It
approached at a wild rate. The driver proved to be Lex
Sangerly—alone. He brought the car to a stop, leaped out and dashed
up to the front porch. Tinnemaha Pete got to his feet and one
clawlike hand reached into his overalls pocket.

“Compliments from Sheriff Warburton,” cried Lex jubilantly. “He’s
attending to some official business and couldn’t get here at the
appointed hour. He asked me to deliver this message to Jerome
Liggs.” He flourished a yellow sheet of paper, a telegram, which he
read aloud as Lemuel came hurrying up:

  “L. S. Sangerly, senior, Manager M. & S. R. R.

  “Your wire relative to Billy Gee’s parole considered and approved.
  Withdrawal of charges against him by your company and your
  personal concern in his case make me feel keenly interested in his
  redemption. Your views are directly in line with my own. As you
  must know I am inaugurating the honor system in the penal
  institutions of this State. Kindest regards to yourself and
  family. I am informing the sheriff of San Buenaventura County of
  my action.

                                  “Hiram Bronson, Governor,
                                            “State of California.”

A hysterical cry of joy burst from Dot. Tinnemaha Pete dropped the
revolver back into his pocket and staggered blindly to the bench and
made curious, choking noises in his throat.

Later that day, while Lemuel sat smoking on the porch and grinning
contentedly to himself, Billy Gee came out of the house and
confronted him.

“Huntington!” he said shortly. “You reckillect that mornin’ I told
you I was goin’ to pay you back for sellin’ me out to Sheriff
Warburton?”

The rancher took his pipe from his mouth and stared soberly at the
other. He did not reply.

“Well, you’re payin’, old sport. Me an’ Dot’s goin’ to git married
nex’ Sunday, whether you like it or not. That’s how I square up with
you.”

Before Lemuel could reply there was a heavy footfall in the hall and
a strident voice boomed heartily:

“Hold on there, a minute, kid! I got somepn to say about this.” They
turned to see Sheriff Warburton standing in the doorway, a bandage
around his head. Back of him stood Dot, her pretty face wreathed in
smiles. The sheriff got out his handcuffs and approached the two
men, his eye on Billy Gee. Lemuel catching the meaning of the action
grinned broadly.

“I always told myself, that I’d hang these nickel-plated doodads on
you some time, young feller,” said the sheriff gravely. “I’m goin’
to, right now—perticular on account of what you jest said. Come
here, Dot!” He reached out and took the girl by the arm and brought
her alongside of Billy Gee. With a deft movement, he handcuffed them
together. “After Sunday, Billy, that’s the awful fix you’ll be in,
an’ that’s how _I_ square up with _you_. He’s a lucky dog, Dot,” he
added laughingly.

Tinnemaha Pete, watching the proceedings with Mrs. Liggs, burst into
a loud cackle of mirth.

“Son of a gun, Agatha! Did ye mark that? He ain’t sech a measly
skunk, as I thought he was. What’re cryin’ about, Agatha?”

“I’m—I’m so happy, Pete,” she breathed, turning away.

In the months that followed, the Huntington ranch vanished, save for
two fenced-in acres that held the house, outbuildings, and the cool,
old-fashioned garden with the trim little grave in one corner. The
townsite of Liggs sprang up mushroomlike and took its proud place on
the map of San Buenaventura County. The Billy Geerusalem claims
blossomed out, bonanzas, and the camp of Geerusalem lost its ranking
as the metropolis of Soapweed Plains. It never knew a railroad—even
as the elder Sangerly had avowed to Jule Quintell, now languishing
in the State penitentiary.

Prosperity can never change the sterling members of the human
family, no more than may the powers of alchemy convert slag into
gold. They are still the same humble dwellers of the vast
Mohave—Tinnemaha Pete, quaint, timid old desert rat; Sheriff Bob
Warburton, big of soul and purposeful; achieving, ambitious Lex
Sangerly; Dick Lennox, mining engineer of merit.

The dark days of uncertainty still remain green in the mind of
Lemuel Huntington. They remain green, too, in the mind of his
daughter, whose romantic brain worked out the destiny of her own
happiness. Nor can the shy little mother, who lived and suffered for
her wayward son, ever forget; nor that son, who found the turning
point in the realization that the price for a hunted animal could
not tempt her compassionate heart.

All this and more has been narrated by Dot in her novel, which she
called “Billy Geerusalem,” and lovingly dedicated to the man who
came to her out of the violet and yellow scallop of hills which had
formed the background of all her romantic dreams.

THE END.



*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Rider of the Mohave" ***

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