The Spoilers of the Valley Part 65

"It was ashes before the police came.

"Now, Philip Ralston,--it was you who committed the crime you got rightly jailed for. You didn't get half what was coming to you, dirty thief and blackmailer that you are. You should have had ten years----"

Brenchfield got no further. Phil was on him quick as an avalanche. The Mayor, in his haste to get out of the way, toppled backward against the anvil. Phil's left arm shot out and finished the job. He caught Brenchfield straight on the point of the chin, sending him hurtling head first over the anvil and on to the floor on the other side.

Phil vaulted over on top of him, but when he saw the huddled form, limp and insensible, and the face livid and drawn, his better judgment flashed through and mastered his terrible anger. He caught the inert Mayor by the arms, dragged him across the soft flooring of hoof shavings and metal-dust, to the outside, slinging him unceremoniously on to the heap of broken iron beside the frozen horse-trough. He next went back into the smithy, damped down the fires, dipped a pail into the vat--filling it with water--then shut up shop, for it was growing dark and near to the usual closing time. He went into the yard and looked over his still senseless but heavily breathing antagonist. He dashed the icy contents of the pail contemptuously over the head and shoulders of Brenchfield, tossing the empty receptacle on the ground.

He next loosened his horse from the stall in the barn, mounted and rode down town to Morrison of the O.K. Supply Company to purchase the balance of the supplies he and Jim required for their next day's Christmas dinner--their first Christmas dinner on a ranch; Phil's first Christmas dinner in six outside of a prison.

And, as he jogged homeward over the hard, frozen snow--his saddlebags on either side choking full of good things to eat--he tried, again and again, but without success, to discover at which point in his conversation with Brenchfield he had given himself away and thereby disclosed to him that his cipher confession was a myth.

And Graham Brenchfield, as he took the back lanes home,--after having regained his scattered senses and put his upset toilet into half-respectable shape--cursed himself for his folly and wished that what he had tried to draw Ralston on were really true; that the doc.u.ment he so much dreaded and desired to possess were really ashes long since strewn to the winds.

But he could not be certain on the point, for Phil had not sufficiently betrayed himself; so he cursed again and made up his mind that there was only one course now open to make surety doubly sure;--and Phil Ralston or any others who tried to come in his path must accept the consequences of their folly and rashness.

Phil reached the ranch in good time and, considering all he had gone through, in fairly good spirits. He stabled the horse, and after brus.h.i.+ng three or four of Ah Sing's black cats from the door-step he went inside, greeting Jim in his usual hearty way.

The table was set in the kitchen and the pots were steaming on the stove top, all ready for the evening meal.

Jim was in the adjoining room, apparently absorbed over some of his alleged literary work. He raised his head as Phil greeted him, but his face remained solemn. He kept at the table while Phil washed and dried his face and hands. Phil went in to him at last and sat down on the bed watching Jim intently.

"Come on, old c.o.c.k!" he cried, "wake up. These dime 'bloods' are getting your goat. Cut loose from them--it's Christmas Eve, and, glory be! we are not in the workhouse.

"Hullo!--what have you been doing with my old gum boots? Gee,--I haven't seen them for a dog's age."

That gave Jim his opening. He rose and went over to the bed, holding out his hand to his partner.

"Phil, old boy, if you get angry with me I'm going to be dog-goned sorry. I've got something on my chest and I've got to get it off.

"You won't get mad!"

The big, rugged, raw-boned Scot caught Phil in his arms and hugged him as if he were a sweetheart.

Usually so undemonstrative, Phil was taken aback at Jim's behaviour; and Jim, immediately ashamed for his outward show of emotion, sat down beside Phil and looked at the floor between his legs.

Phil clapped him on the back and Jim drew himself together.

"How long ago is it since you had these boots on, Phil?"

"Oh,--I guess I haven't had them on since before----" He reddened.

"Oh!--four or five years, maybe. They never fitted me very well."

"My own broke on the soles yesterday and I simply had to have something of the kind when cleaning out the stable to-day, so I hunted out yours from your old kit bag."

"You're heartily welcome to them, Jim,--if that is all."

Jim turned a curious glance at Phil.

"You good old scout!" he said. Then he changed quickly. "Och,--what's the use o' me beating about. Phil,--that--that fell out of the toe of one of the boots when I was trying to get them on."

He held out a dirty, crumpled piece of paper.

Phil took it from him and looked it over casually.

"It was twisted up, almost to the size of a marble."

Suddenly Phil's face took on an ashy hue and he gasped.

"Great G.o.d; I--I----"

He jumped up, then caught at the bed-post for support as he tried to gather his wits and to quiet his wildly thumping heart.

"You--you----It is all right, Jim," he stammered. "It is of no importance."

Jim rose and placed his arm round his chum.

"Phil, old chap,--it isn't any good to pretend. I'm an interfering lout, I know, and I shouldn't have done it. I have made out all that it says, and, oh G.o.d!--but you're a game sport--even if you have been a darned fool about it."

Phil stood helpless.

"Heavens!" continued Jim, "five years in jail for that pig! And you never split on him. The dirty sewer-rat!

"I remember every point of that case now. Being a lawyer, I followed it closely. It struck me as one of purely d.a.m.ned, d.a.m.ning circ.u.mstantial evidence and it interested me at the time."

"And--and you found this in--in my old boot?" asked Phil, pulling himself up.

"Ay!--and pretty nearly didn't pay any heed to it. I unrolled it without thinking, then the queer mix-up of letters and numbers got me.

I wasn't so very busy--I never am when something crops up that attracts the curiosity part of me. I wondered what it could all mean.

I sat down there and got it in two hours, beginning at the end and working backwards. I should have stopped, laddie, when I got a certain length, but it dealt with you and I didn't think I would be right in stopping.

"Edgar Allen Poe's 'Gold Bug' gave me the incentive for deciphering such like conundrums. I found it easy enough starting in with his method of deduction.

"You're no' angry wi' me, Phil?" asked Jim, taking refuge in his favourite Doric.

"No--no--I'm not, Jim! I meant to--to tell you--someday. I--this has caught me unexpectedly and I can't just think right. But I thought this had been burned long ago. Brenchfield thinks so too. The police had these boots all the time I was in jail, and they didn't discover it.

"Let's sit down, Jim! I've got to tell you all about it now. Supper can wait. We'll both feel the better for it afterwards."

They sat down together on the bed in that little back room.

"It's a common enough story, Jim. I was born in Toronto. There were four of us, my dad, my mother, my little sister Margery and myself. A happier quartette no one ever heard of. But my mother died suddenly.

To my mind, she took all the fun of life with her. Dad moved us to Texas, where he became engaged in some mining or oil projects. A year after my mother's death, he married again. I did not understand a thing about it, until he told me I had a new mother. In a fit of boyish resentment, I packed my clothes together, took my small h.o.a.rd of savings, went into my little sister's bedroom one night as she lay asleep, kissed her, cried over her, and ran away.

"Silly, Jim,--wasn't it? But from that day to this I have not seen a relative of mine.

"I worked my way north, back into Canada, to Campbeltown, where I remembered having visited the Brenchfields as a little fellow with my mother. Brenchfield's mother and mine had been school companions in the old days. I had had a good time on that earlier visit and the memory of it, more than anything else, prompted me to make for Campbeltown again.

"Mrs. Brenchfield showed me every kindness and made a home for me. She or her husband must have sent word to my dad, who evidently decided to let me cool my heels. He mailed me a draft for three hundred dollars and promised a further hundred dollars a month for my keep and education during the time I preferred to deny myself of the pardon and loving welcome that would await me any time I cared to return home.

That was where the mistake was made. Jim, he should have insisted on my being returned home at once and when I got home he should have given me a right good hiding.