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.