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.”