Rimrock Trail Part 41

you, Keith, that, if Herefo'd folks knew you'd deliberately sold them rotten stock, you an' yore private car might suffer consid'rable damage befo' you got away. Out west folks still git riled over trick plays an'

holdouts, hawss-stealin' an' otheh deals that ain't square. I'd sure advise you to come across."

Keith looked into the face of Sandy and, briefly, into his eyes, hard as steel. He made one more attempt.

"Let's talk common sense, Bourke. You're quixotic. The Molly is capitalized for a quarter of a million dollars. The stock can be sold at par if it's done quietly. I can dispose of it for you. There is no certainty that the mine will not produce richly when we strike through the second level of porphyry. There are plenty of people willing to buy shares on that chance after the showing already made. I tried to say just now that you have no right to throw away your ward's money, and you are a fool to throw away your own. People buy stock as a gamble."

"No sense in you talkin' any mo' that way, Keith. Mebbe you sell paper to folks who gamble on it, an' on what you tell 'em about the chances, makin' yore story gold-colored. Folks may like to git somethin' fo' nex'

to nothin', but I won't sell 'em nothin' fo' somethin', neitheh will my partners, neitheh will Molly Casey. She's a western gel. Above all, I won't gold-brick my friends. I know the mine is petered out. You won't call my play about havin' an expert examine it, which same is no bluff.

I believe in Westlake's report. We've had our share of the gold in it an', we won't sell the dirt. No mo' w'ud Pat Casey, lyin' out there by the spring, if he was alive."

"Suppose I refuse?" asked Keith, his square face obstinate. "I've done nothing outside the law."

"To h.e.l.l with that kind of law! We make laws of our own out here once in a while. Justice is what we look fo', not law. We aim to trail straight.

I reckon you'll come through. Fo' one thing I expect to have yore boy visit with us till you do."

The promoter's face twisted uglily and he lost control of himself.

"Kidnapping? A western method of justice. Not the first time you've been mixed up in it either, from what I hear. You don't dare...."

Keith stopped abruptly. Sandy had not moved, but his eyes, from resembling orbs of chilled steel, seemed suddenly to throw off the blaze and heat of the molten metal.

"Fo' a promoter yo're a mighty pore judge of men," he said. "I'm warnin'

you not to ride any further along that trail. Yore son can stay here, or we can tell the Herefo'd folk what you've tried to hand to them. Yo're apt to look like a buzzard that's fallen into a tar barrel after they git through with you, Keith. Trouble with you is that you've been bullin' the market an' havin' it yore own way too long. Now you see a b'ar on the horizon, you don't like the view.

"When we bring up stock fo' s.h.i.+pment we sometimes have trouble with the longhorns. We've got a dehornin' machine fo' them. That's yore trubble, so fur as this locality is concerned. You need dehornin'. I can find out who you sold stock to easy enough, but I don't care to waste the time.

An' if I do there'll be more publicity about it than you'd care fo'.

Might even git back to New Yo'k. I'm givin' you the easy end of it, Keith, 'count of Molly. You an' me can ride into town in yore car an'

clean this all up befo' the bank closes. We'll leave the money with Creel of the Herefo'd National. Then you can come back an' git yore boy."

"I don't remember the names. Blake took the record of them," said Keith sullenly.

"Then we'll have him in."

Sandy went to the door and hailed Sam and Mormon. They came to the office escorting Blake, whose fox-face moved from side to side with furtive eyes as if he smelled a trap.

"We want the list of the folks you unloaded Molly stock to," said Sandy.

Blake looked at his employer who sat glowering at his cigar end, licked his lips and said nothing.

"Speak up," said Sandy.

"There's a fine patch of p.r.i.c.kly pear handy," suggested Sam. "Fine fo'

restorin' the voice. Last time we chucked a tenderfoot in there they had to peel the s.h.i.+rt off of him in strips." He took the secretary by one elbow, Mormon by the other, both grinning behind his back as he shook with a sudden palsy in the belief that they meant their threat.

"Tell him, you d.a.m.ned fool!" grunted Keith.

"The stubs are in the car at Hereford depot," said Blake. "In the safe."

"Money there too? I suppose you cashed the checks?"

"I deposited them to my own account," said Keith. "Come on, let's get this over with since you are determined to throw away your own and your partners' good money, to say nothing of the girl's. She could bring suit against you, Bourke, with a good chance of winning."

He glanced hopefully at Mormon and Sam. They kept on grinning.

"Round up that chauffeur, Sam, will you?" asked. Sandy. "Tell him we're startin' fo' Herefo'd right off. You an' me can go over those accounts of Molly's same time we attend to the other business, Keith."

They went outside, Blake looking anxious and a trifle bewildered, Keith throwing away his cigar and lighting a new one, his face sullen with the rage he dammed. Kate Nicholson and Miranda Bailey were on the ranch-house veranda.

"Could I ask you to mail these letters, Mr. Keith? Two of Molly's and one of my own." Kate Nicholson advanced toward him, the letters in hand.

With a spurt of fury Keith s.n.a.t.c.hed at the letters and threw them on the ground.

"To h.e.l.l with you!" he shouted, his face empurpled. "You're fired!" All of his polish stripped from him like peeling veneer, he appeared merely a coa.r.s.e bully.

Sam came up the veranda in two jumps and a final leap that left him with his hands entwined in Keith's coat collar. He whirled that astounded person half around and slammed him up against the wall of the ranch-house, rumpled, gasping, with trembling hands that lifted before the menace of Sam's gun.

"I oughter shoot the tongue out of you befo' I put a slug through yore head," said Sam, standing in front of the promoter, tense as a jaguar couched for a spring, his eyes glittering, his voice packed with venom.

"You git down on yo' knees, you ring-tailed skunk, an' apologize to this lady. Crook yo' knees, you stinkin' polecat, an' crawl. I'll make you lick her shoes. Down with you or I'll send you straight to judgment!"

"No, Sam, Mr. Manning--it isn't necessary," protested Kate Nicholson.

"Please...."

Sam looked at her cold-eyed.

"This is my party," he said. "It'll do him good. I'll let him off lickin' yo' shoes, he might spile the leather. But he'll git them letters he chucked away, git 'em on all-fours, like the sneakin', slinkin', double-crossin' coyote he is. Crook yo' knees first an'

apologize! I'll learn you a lesson right here an' now. You stay right where you are, Kate. Let him come to you."

Sam fired a shot and the promoter jumped galvanically as the bullet tore through the planking of the ranch-house between his trembling knees.

"I regret, Miss Nicholson," he commenced huskily, "that I let my temper get the better of me. I was greatly upset. In the matter of your services I was--er--doubtless hasty. It can be arranged."

He shrank at the tap of Sam's gun on his shoulder, wilting to his knees.

"She w'udn't work fo' you fo' the time it takes a rabbit to dodge a rattler," said Sam. "She never did work fo' you. It was Molly's money paid her. Kate's goin' to stay right here as long as she chooses an'

I...."

Catching Kate Nicholson's gaze, the admiring look of a woman who has never before been championed, conscious of the fact that he had blurted out her Christian name and disclosed the secret of that touch of intimacy between them, Sam grew crimson through his tan. Kate Nicholson's face was rosy; both were embarra.s.sed.

"Thank you, Mr. Manning," she said. "Please let him get up, and put away your pistol."

"Git up," said Sam, "an' go pick up them letters."

Keith, humiliated before his secretary and his chauffeur, the latter gazing wooden-faced but making no attempt at interference, gathered up the envelopes and presented them, with a bow, to the governess. He had recovered partial poise and his face was pale as wax, his eyes evil.

"I'll mail them, Miss Nicholson," said Sandy. "Let's go." He took Sam aside as the car swung round and up to the porch. "I'm obliged to you, Sam," he said. "It was sure comin' to him an' I've been havin' hard work to keep my hands off him. I've a notion he'll trail better now. If Brandon arrives befo' we git back, look out fo' him. Mormon'll help you entertain."

"Seguro," replied Sam. "Look at Keith. He looks like a rattler with his fangs pulled. I'll bet he c'ud spit bilin' vitriol right now."

"His cud ain't jest what he most fancies, this minute," said Sandy dryly. "Sorter bitter to chew an' hard to swaller. Sammy," Sandy's voice changed to affection, his eyes twinkled, "I didn't sabe you an' Miss Nicholson was so well acquainted."