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.