 CHAPTER V. THE MASKERS For Eleanor, her Christian name was Eleanor, had twenty-seven different kinds of hell in her. Richard Hovey. It lacked little of the eleventh hour when the football player reached the ballroom, last comeer to the revels. A bandage round his head and a rubber nose-guard, which also hid his mouth, served for a mask eked out by crisscrossed strips of court plaster. One arm was in a sling, for stage purposes only. As he limped through the door, Diogenes, hurried to meet him, held up his lantern, peered hopefully into the battered face, and shook his disappointed head, stung again, muttered Diogenes. Hovey left in numbers, which fully verified the cynics misgiving, seven-eleven-four-eleven-forty-four, he announced jerkily. This was strictly in character, and also excused him from entangling talk, leaving him free to search the world of dancers. A bulky rough-writer volunteered his help. He fixed a gleaming eyeglass on his nose, and politely offered Hovey a big stick by way of a crutch. Bit the line hard he barked, he bit the words off with a prize bulldog effect. He had fine teeth. Jeff waved him off, sixteen, two, one, he proclaimed, controversially. He felt his spirit sinking, with a growing doubt of his ability to identify the only one, and was impatient of interruption. He kept his slow and watchful way down the floor. Hovey broke away from her partner, and stopped Jeff's crippled progress. Her short hair, braided to a dozen tight and tiny pigtails, bristled away in all directions. "'Laws, young master! You certainly do go peony,' she said. Then she clutched at her knee. Ay!' She tittered, as a loose red stocking dropped flappingly to her ankle. Pray do not be shocked. The effect was startling, but a black stocking, a decorously tight and smooth, was beneath the red one. Jeff's mathematics were not equal to the strain of adequate comet. Topsy dived to the rescue. Got a string, she giv'd, as she hitched the fallen stocking back to place. Can't fix this good know-how. Jeff jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Man over there with an eyeglass gored, and maybe you can get that. What makes you act so? She looked cold disapproval. Nevertheless, he looked. Topsy hung her head, still clutching at the stocking top. To know, I suspect it's because I was so wicked. Finger and mouth she looked after Jeff as he hobbled away. A slender witch pounced from a chair and barred his way with a broom. Her eyes were brimming sorcery. Her lips looked saucy-challenge. She leaned close for a whispered word in his ear. How would you like to tackle me? Poor Jeff. Ten, two, ten, two, he promised huskily, yet he ducked beneath the broom. But, said the little witch, plaintively, you're going away. She dropped her broom and wept. Eight, two, eight, two, eight, two, said Jeff, almost in tears himself, and again fell back upon English. Mere figures or mere words can't tell you how much I hate to, but I've got to follow the ball. I'm looking for a fellow. If he, if he doesn't love you, sobbed the stricken witch, then you'll come back to me, won't you? I love a liar. To the very stake, vowed Jeff, such heroic, if conditional constancy, was not to go unrewarded. A couple detached themselves from the dancers, threaded their way to a corner of the long hall, and stood there in deep converse. Jeff quickened to pulse and pace, for one was a red devil, and the other wore the soft gray costume of a friend. She was tall, this quakeress, and the hobnobbing devil was of Jeff's own height. Jeff began to hope for a goal. Briskly limping, he came to this engrossed couple and laid a friendly hand on the devil's shoulder. Brother, he said gorgeously, will you please go to home? The devil recoiled an astonished step. What? What? Show me your license. Twenty-three, please. There's a good devil, twenty-three. I'm the right guard for this lady, I hope. Oh, please to go home. The devil took this request in very bad part. Go back fifteen yards for offside play, and take a dropkick at yourself, he suggested sourly. A burly policeman, plainly conscious of fitting his uniform, paused for warning. No, scrapping now, just start nothing, or I'll run in the three of yes, he said, and sauntered on, twirling a graceful night-stick. The is a local man judging from thy letters, said the quaker lady, to relieve the somewhat strange situation. What do they stand for? A-P-O-S-L-Passo, of course. I saw you first, said the red devil, and with your disposition you would naturally find me more suitable. Make your choice of grid-irones, send him back to the sidelines, disqualify him for interference. Don't be hurried into a decision, said Jeff. Eternity is a good while. Before it's over I'm going to be a, well, something more than a footballer. Golf may be your tiddly wicks. The quaker ass glanced attentively from one to the other. Doubtless he will do his best to forward thy majesty's interest, she interposed. Why not give him a chance? The devil shrugged his shoulders. I always prefer to give this branch of work my personal attention, he said stiffly. A specialty of thine, mocked the girl. The devil bowed sulkily. My heart is in it. Of course, if you prefer the bungling of a novice, there is no more to be said. Thine majesty's manners have never been questioned, murmured the quaker ass, bowing dismissal, so kind of you. The devil bowed deeply and turned, pausing to hurl a gloomy prophecy over his shoulder. See you later, he said, and stalked away with an ill grace. Pigskin hero and girlfriend left alone eyed each other with mutual apprehension. The girlfriend was first to recover speech. Her red lips were prim below her visor, her eyes a downcast to hide their dancing lights. Timidly she spread out, fan-wise, the dove-color of her sober costume. How does the life migrate down? Not at all, said Jeff brutally. You're no friend of mine, I hope. A most unquaker-like dimple trembled to her chin, relieving the firm austerity of straight lips. Also Jeff caught a glimpse of her eyes through the visor. They were crinkling, and they were brown. She ventured another tentative remark, and there was in it an undertone lingering, softly confidential. Is the lame? Not very, said Jeff, and saw faint colors start to the unmasked moiety of the quaker-jeeg. Still, if I may have the next dance, I shall be glad if you will sit it out with me. Painfully he raised the beslinged arm in explanation. Sobra las olas, throbbed out its wistful call. They set their thought to its haunting measure. By all means, she took his undamaged arm. Let us find chairs. Now there were chairs to the left of them, chairs to the right of them, chairs vacant everywhere, but the gallant six hundred themselves were not more heedless or undismayed than these two. Still all the world did not wonder. On the contrary, not even the anxious devil saw them after they passed behind a knot of would-be dancers who were striving to disentangle themselves. For seeing traffic thus blocked, the policeman rushed to unsnarl the tangle. Magnificently he flourished his stick. He adjured them roughly, move on, use, move on. Whereat, with one impulse the tangle moved on the copper, swept over him, engulfed him, hustled him to the door and threw him out. So screened the chair-hunters, vanished in far less than a psychological moment. For Jeff, in obedience to a faint or fancy depressure on his arm, dived through the portiers into a small room, set apart for such as had the heart to prefer cards or chess. The room was deserted now, and there was a broad window open to the night. Thus thrice-favored of Providence, they found themselves in the garden, chairless but cheerful. A garden with one eave is the perfect combination in a world awry. Muffled, the music and the sounds of the ballroom came faint and far to them. Star-made shadows danced at their feet. The girl paused expectant, but it was the unexpected that happened. The nimble tongue, which had done such faithful service for Mr. Bransford, now failed him quite, left him struggling, dumb, in articulate, helpless, tongue and hand alike forgetful of their cunning. Be sure the maid had adroitly heard much of Mr. Bransford, his deeds and misdeeds, during the tedious interval since their first meeting. Report had dwelt lovingly upon Mr. Bransford's eloquence at need. This awkward silence was a tribute of sincerity above question. With difficulty Eleanor mastered a wild desire to ask where the cat had gone. Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war! Such injudicious quotation trembled on the tip of her tongue, but she suppressed it barely in time. She felt herself growing nervous with the fear lest she should be hurried into some all-too-luminous speech. And still Jeff stood there, lost, speechless, helpless, unready, a conzi oath, an object of pity. Pity at last, or a kindred feeling, drove her to the rescue, and just as she had feared, she said in her generous haste, far too much. I thought you were not coming? The inflection made a question of this statement. Also by implication it answered so many questions, yet unworded, that Jeff was able to use his tongue again. But it was not the crusty tongue of your witness this wooden speech. You mean you thought I said I wasn't coming, don't you? You knew I would come? Indeed. How should I know what you would do? I've only seen you once. Aren't you forgetting that? Why else did you make up as a friend, then? Oh, oh, dear these men, there's conceit for you. I chose my costume as solely to trap Mr. Brantford's eye. Is that it? Doubtless all my thoughts have centered on Mr. Brantford since I first saw him. You know I didn't mean that, Miss Elder. I miss Hoffman, if you please. Miss Hoffman, don't be mean to me, I've only got an hour. An hour? Do you imagine for one second why I mustn't stay here? This is really a farewell dance given in my honor. We go back east today after tomorrow. I must go in. Only one little hour, and I have come a long way for my hour. They take their masks off at midnight, don't they? And of course I can't stay after that. I want only just to ask you, why did you come, then? Isn't it rather unusual to go uninvited to a ball? Why I reckon you nearly know why I came, Miss Hoffman. But if you want me to say precisely, ma'am, I don't, we'll keep that for a surprise, then. Another thing, I wanted to find out just where you live in New York. I forgot to ask you. And I couldn't very well go around asking folks after you're gone, could I? Of course I didn't have any invitation from Mr. Lake, but I thought if he didn't know it, he wouldn't mind me just stepping in to get your address. Well, of all the assurance, said Miss Eleanor, do you intend to start up a correspondence with me without even the formality of asking my consent? Why, Miss Eleanor, ma'am, I thought, Miss Hoffman, sir? Yes, and there's another thing. You said you had no invitation from Mr. Lake. Does that mean by any chance that I invited you? You didn't say a word about my coming, said Jeff. He was a flustered man, this poor Bransford, but he managed to put a slight stress upon the word, say. Miss Eleanor, Miss Hoffman, caught this faint emphasis instantly. Oh, I didn't say anything. I just looked in invitation, I suppose. She stormed, melting eyes and that sort of thing, tears in them, maybe. Poor girl, poor little child. It would be cruel to let her go home without seeing me again. I will give her a little more happiness, poor thing, and write to her a while. Maybe it would be wiser, though, just to make a quarrel and break loose at once. She'll get over it in a little while after she gets back to New York. Well, upon my word. As she advanced these horrible suppositions, Miss Hoffman had marked out a short beat of garden path, five steps and a turn, five steps back and whirl again, with on the whole a caged, vigorous effect. With a double-quick at each turn to keep his place at her elbow, Jeff utterly aghast at the damnable perversity of everything on earth, mainly endeavored to make coordinate and stumbling remonstrance. As she stopped for breath, Jeff heard his own voice at last, propounding to the world at large a stunned query as to whether the abode of lost spirits could afford ought to excel the present situation. The remark struck him. He paused to wonder what other things he had been saying. Miss Allener walked her beat, vindictive. Her chin was at an angle of complacency. She turned up the perky corners of an imaginary moustache with an air, an exasperating little finger, separated from the others, pointing upward in hateful self-satisfaction. Her mouth wore a gratified, masculine smirk, visible even in the starlight. Her gait was a leisurely and lordly strut. Her hand waved airy pity. Jeff shrank back in horror. Miss Hoffman, I never did dream. Miss Hoffman turned upon him swiftly. Never have I heard anything like it. Never! You bring me out here willy-nilly, and by way of entertainment you virtually accuse me of throwing myself at your head. I never, said Jeff indignly, I didn't. Miss Hoffman faced him crouchingly, and shook an indictment from her fingers. First you imply that I enticed you to come. Second expecting you, I dressed to catch your eye. Third I was watching eagerly for you. Oh, come! I say now, debated an exasperated victim, walked headlong into the trap. The first thing you did was to ask me if I was lame. Wasn't that question meant to find out who I was? When I answered not very, didn't you know at once that it was me? There, that proves exactly what I was just saying, raged the delighted draper. You don't even deny it. You say in so many words that I have been courting you. I had to say something, didn't I? You wouldn't. You were limping, so I ask you if you were lame. What else could I have said? Did you want me to stand there like a stuffed Egyptian mummy? That's the thanks a girl gets for trying to help a great, awkward blundering butterfingers. Oh, if you could just see yourself, the irresistible conqueror, not altogether unprincipled, though you are capable of compunction. I'll give you credit for that. Alarmed at your easy success, you try to spare me. It is noble of you. Noble! You drag me out here, force a quarrel upon me. Oh, by Jove now, really. Stung by the point yet injustice of crowding events, Jeff took the bin in his teeth and rushed to destruction. Really, you must see yourself that I couldn't drag you out here. I've never been in that hall before. I didn't know the lay of the ground. I didn't even know that little side room was there. I thought you pressed my arm a little. So the brainless colt in the quick sands flounders deeper with each effort to extricate himself. If Miss Hoffman had been angry before, she was furious now. So that's the way of it. Better and better, I dragged you out. Really, Mr. Bransford, I feel that I should take you back to your chaperone at once. You might be compromised, you know. Goaded to desperation, he acted on this hint at once. He turned with stiff and stilted speech. I will take you back to the window, Miss Hoffman. Then there is nothing for me to do but go. I am sorry to have caused you even a moment's annoyance. Tomorrow you will see how you have twisted. I mean how completely you have misinterpreted everything I have said. Perhaps some day you may forgive me. Here is the window. Good night. Goodbye. Miss Hoffman lingered, however. Of course, if you apologize, I do, Miss Hoffman. I beg your pardon most sincerely for anything I have ever said or done that could hurt you in any way. If you are sure you are sorry, if you take it all back and will never do such a thing again, perhaps I may forgive you. I won't, I will, said the abject and groveling wretch, which was incoherent but pleasing. I didn't mean anything the way you took it, but I'm sorry for everything. Then I didn't beguile you to come or mask as a friend in the hope that you would identify me. No, no, Miss Eleanor pressed her advantage cruelly. Nor take stock of each new masquer to see if he possibly wasn't the expected Mr. Bransford. Nor drag you into the garden, nor squeeze your arm. Her hands went to her face. Her list them body shook. Oh, Mr. Bransford, she sobbed between her fingers. How could you? How could you say that? The clock chimed. Appealing voice beat out into the night. Masks off. A hundred voices swelled the cry. It was drowned in waves of laughter. It rose again tumultuously. Masks off, masks off. Nearer came hateful voices too, the cry. Eleanor, Eleanor, where are you? I must go, said Jeff. They'll be looking for you. No, you didn't do any of those things. You couldn't do any of those things. Goodbye. Eleanor, Eleanor, Hoffman, where are you? Miss Hoffman whipped off her mask. From the open window a shaft of light fell on her face. It was flushed, sparkling, irradiant. Masks off, she said, stupid. Oh, you great goose, of course I did. She stepped back into the shadow. No one, as the copybook says justly, may be always wise. Conversely, the most unwise of us blunders sometimes upon the right thing to do. With a glimmer of returning intelligence, Mr. Bransford laid his nose-guard on the windowsill. Sir, said Eleanor, then, how dare you? Then she turned the other cheek. Goodbye, she whispered, and fled away to the ballroom. Mr. Bransford, in the shadows, scratched his head dubiously. Her Christian name was Eleanor, he muttered. Eleanor, mmm, Eleanor. Very appropriate name. Very, and I don't know yet where she lives. He wandered disconsolently away to the garden wall, forgetting the discarded nose-guard. End of chapter 5 Chapter 6 The Isle of Arcady Then the moon shone out so broad and good that the barnfowl crowed. And the brown owl called to his maid in the wood that a dead man lay in the road. Will Wallace Harnie Arcadia's assets were the railroad, two large modern sawmills, the climate, and printer's ink. The railroad founded a patch of bare ground, six miles from water, put in successively a whistling-post, a signboard, a depot, townside papers, and a water main from the Alamo. And when the townside papers were confirmed, established machine shops, and made the new town the division headquarters and base were northward building. The railroad then set up the sawmills, primarily to get out ties and timbers for its own lanky growth, and built a spur to bring the forest down from the rainbow to the mills. The word down is used advisedly. Arcadia nestled on the plain under the very eavespouts of rainbow range. The branch, following with slavish fidelity, the lines of a twisted corkscrew, took 27 miles, mostly tunnel and trestlework, to clamber to the logging camps with the minimum grade that was purely prohibitive and a maximum that I dare not state. But there was a rise of 6,000 feet in those 27 miles. You can figure the average for yourself, and if the engine should run off the track at the end of her climb, she would light on the very roundhouse where she took breakfast and spoiled the shingles. Yes, that was some railroad. There was a summer hotel, Cloudland, on the summit, largely occupied by slack wire performers. Others walked up or rode a horse. They used stem winding engines with eight vertical cylinders on the right side and a shaft like a steamboat with beveled cogwheel transmission on the axles. And they haven't had a wreck on that branch to date. No matter how late a train is, when an engine sees the taillights of her caboose ahead of her, she stops and sends out flagmen. The railroad, under the pseudonym of the Arcadia Development Company, also laid out streets and laid in a network of pipelines and sacked out lots until the sawmill protested for lack of tide timber. It put down miles of cement walks, fringed them with cottonwood saplings, telephone poles and electric lights. It built a hotel in a few streets of party-colored cottages, directois with lingerie, tile roofs, organ de façades and peplum, intersecting panels and outside chimneys at the gable ends. It decreed a park with nooks, lanes, mazes, lake, swans, ball-ground, grandstand, bandstand, and the band appertaining thereunto, all of which apparently came into being overnight. Then it employed a competent staff of word artists and capitalized the climate. The result was astonishing. The cottonwoods grew apace and a swift town grew with them, swift in every sense of the word. It took good money to buy good lots in Arcadia, people with money must be fed, served and amused by people wanting money. In three years the trees cast a pleasant shade and the company cast a balance with gratifying results. They discounted the unearned increment for a generation to come. It was a beneficent scheme selling ozone and novelty, sunshine and delight. The buyers got far more than the worth of their money, the company got their money and everyone was happy. Health and good spirits are a bargain at any price. There were sandstorms and hot days, but sand promotes digestion and digestion promotes cheerfulness. Heat merely enhanced the luxury of shaded hammocks. As an adventurer thought out, he sent for seven others worse than himself. Arcadia became the metropolis of the county and by special election the county seat. Courthouse, college and jail followed in quick succession. For the company Arcadia Life was one grand sweet song with thus far but a single discord. As has been said Arcadia was laid out on the plane. There was higher ground on three sides, Rainbow Mountain to the east, the deltas of La Cruz Creek and the Alamo to the north and south. New Mexico was dry as a rule. After the second exception, when enthusiastic citizens went about on stilts to forward a project for changing the town's name to Venice, the company acknowledged its error handsomely. When dry land prevailed once more above the face of the waters, it built a mighty moat by way of the amenda honorabda, a moat with its one embankment on the inner side of the five mile horseshoe about the town. This, with its attendant bridges, gave to Arcadia an aspect singularly medieval. It also furnished a convenient line of social demarcation. Chauffeurs, college professors, lawyers, gamblers, county officers, together with a few tradesmen and railroad officials abode within the Isle of Arcady on more or less even terms with the Arcadian property. Millman, railroaders, lumberjacks and the underworld, generally, dwelt without the pail. The company rubbed its lamp again and behold an armory, a hospital, and a library. It contributed liberally to churches and campaign funds. It exercised a general supervision over morals and manners. For example, in the deed to every lot sold was an ironclad fire-tested automatic and highly constitutional forfeiture clause to the effect that sale or storage on the premises of any malt, venus, or spiritus selectors should immediately cause the title to revert to the company. The company's own vicarious saloon on lot number one was a sumptuous and a magnificent affair. It was known as the Mint. All this while we have been trying to reach the Night Watchman. In the early youth of Arcadia that came to her borders a warlock thin of ruddy countenance and solid build. He had a thinnish name and they called him Lars Persina. Lars P. had been a seafaring man while spending a year's wage in San Francisco he had wandered into Arcadia by accident. There, being unable to find the sea, he became a lumberjack with a custom when in spirits of beating the Watchman of that date into an amulet. The indulgence of this penchant gave occasion for much adverse criticism. Fine and imprisonment failed to deter him from this playful habit. One Watchman tried to dissuade Lars from his foible with a club and his successor even went so far as to shoot him to shoot Lars P. of course, not his predecessor. The successor's predecessor, not Lars Persina's if he ever had one, which he hadn't. What we need is more pronouns. He, the successor of the predecessor, resigned when Lars became convalescent but Lars was no quit dismayed by this contra-tan. In his first lighthearted moment he resumed his old amusement with unabated gaiety. Thus was one of our greatest railroad systems subjected to embarrassment and annoyance by the idiosyncrasies of an ignorant but cheerful sailor man. The railroad resolved to submit no longer to such caprice. A middleweight of renown was imported who, when he was able to be about again, bitterly reproached the president and demanded a bonus on the ground that he had knocked Lars down several times before he, Lars, got angry. And also because of a disquisition in the Finnish tongue which Lars Persina had emitted during the procedure which address the prizefighter stated had unnerved him and so led to his undoing. It was obviously, he said, of a nature inconceivably insulting. The memory of it rankled yet though he had heard only the beginning and did not get the, but let that pass. The thing became a scandal. Watchman succeeded Watchman on the company payroll and the hospital list until someone hit upon a happy and ingenious way to avoid this indignity. Lars Persina was appointed Watchman. This statesman-like policy bore gratifying results. Lars Persina straightway abandoned his absurd and indefensible custom and no imitator arose. Also Arcadia within the moat, the island, which was the limit of his jurisdiction became the most orderly spot in New Mexico. In the first gray of dawn, Uncle Sam, whistling down Main Street on his way home from the masquerade, found Lars Persina lying on his face in a pool of blood. The belated reveler knelt beside him. The Watchman was shot but still breathed. Oh, murder, help, murder, shouted Uncle Sam. The alarm rolled crashing along the quiet street. Heads were thrust from windows, startled voices took up the outcry. Other homegoers ran from every corner. Hastily arrayed householders poured themselves from street doors. Lars Persina was in a disastrous plight. He breathed but that was about all. He was shot through the body. A trail of blood led back a few doors to Lake's bank. A window was cut out, the blood began at the sill. Messengers ran to telephone the doctor, the sheriff, Lake. The knot of men grew to a crowd. A rumor spread that there had been an unusual amount of currency in the bank overnight. A rumor presently confirmed by Bassett, the bareheaded and white-faced cashier. It was near payday, in addition to the customary amount to cash checks for railroaders and mill hands, itself no mean sum. And the money for regular business, there had been provision for contemplated loans to promoters of new local industries. The doctor came running, made a hasty examination, took emergency measures to staunch the freshly started blood and swore wholeheartedly at the ambulance and the crowding Arkadians. He administered a stimulant. Lars Persina fluttered his eyes weakly. Stand back, you idiots, bash those fool's faces in for him. Someone, said the medical man. He bent over the watchman. Who did it, Lars? Lars made a vain effort to speak. The doctor gave him another sip of restorative and took a pool himself. Try again, old man, you're badly hurt and you may not get another chance. Did you know him? Lars gathered all his strength to a broken speech. No, bank found window midnight, nearly shot me, didn't see him. He fell back on Uncle Sam's starry vest. Ambulance coming, said Uncle Sam. Will he live, Doc? Doc shook his head doubtfully. Poor chance lost too much blood. If he'd been found in time, he might have pulled through. Wonderful vitality ought to be dead by now by the books. Still, there's a chance. I never thought, said Uncle Sam, to Cyrano de Bergerac as the ambulance bore away its unconscious burden that I would ever be so sorry at anything that could happen to Lars Porcina after the way he made me stop singing on my own birthday. He was one grand old fighting machine. End of chapter six. Chapter seven of Bransford of Rainbow Range by Eugene Manlove Rhodes. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter seven states general, and they hailed Sir Charlie Hay and laid the white on Geordi, old ballad, that the master's eye is worth two servants had ever been Lake's favorite maxim. He had not yet gone to bed when the message reached him, where he kept his masterly eye on the proper closing up of the ballroom. He came through the crowd now, shouldering his way roughly, still in his police costume, helmet, tunic, and belt. In his wake came the sheriff who had just arrived, scorching to the scene on his trusty wheel. On the bank steps Lake turned his face to the crowd. His strong canine jaw was set to stubborn fighting lines. The helmet did not wholly hide the black frown or the swollen veins at his temple. Come at Thompson and help the sheriff size the thing up, and you, Alec, he stabbed the air at his choice with a strong blunt finger, and turnbill, you, Clark, and you, Bassett, if you keep the door, admit no one. Lake was the local great man. Never had he appeared to such advantage to his admirers. Never had his ascendancy seemed so unquestioned and so justified. As he stood beside the sheriff in the growing light, the man was the incarnation of power, the power of wealth, position, prestige, success. In this moment of yet unplumbed disaster, taken by surprise, summoned from a night of crowded pleasure, he held his mastery, chose his men and measures with unhesitant decision. Planned, ordered, kept to that blunt direct speech of his, that wasted no word. Abbas went up from the unadmitted as the door swung shut behind him. Lake had chosen well. Arcadia, in epitome, was within those pillaged walls. Thompson was president of the rival bank. Alec was division superintendent. Turnbull was the millmaster. Clark was editor of the Arcadian Day. Clark had been early to the storm center, yet of all the investigators, Clark alone was not more or less disheveled. He was faultlessly apparel even to the long Prince Albert and black string tie in which indeed, report said, he slept. So much for capital, industry and the fourth estate. The last of the Probers, whom Lake had drafted to merely by the slighting personal pronoun you, was nevertheless identifiable in private life by the name of Billy White, being indeed none other than our old friend, the Devil. His indigenous mustache still retained a Mephistophalian twist. He was becomingly arranged in slippers, pajamas and a pink bathrobe, girdled at the waist with a most unhermit-like cord, having gone early and surly to bed. In this improvised committee, he fitly represented society, while the sheriff represented society at large and exefficio that incautious portion under duress. Yet one element was unrepresented, for Lake made a mistake which other great men have made of failing to reckon with the masterless men who dwell without the wall. Lake led the way. Will the watchman die, Alec, do you think? whispered to Billy as they filed through the grilled door to the counting room. Don't know, hope not. Game old rooster, good watchman too, said Turnbull, the mill superintendent. Lake turned on the lights. The wall safe was blown open. Fragments of the door were scattered among the overturned chairs. In an open recess in the vault there was a dull yellow mass. The explosion had spilled the front rows of coins to a golden heap. Behind some golden roulos were intact. Others tottered precariously as you have perhaps seen a beautiful tall stacks of colored counters too. Gold pieces were strewn along the floor. Thank God they didn't get all the gold anyhow, said Lake with a sigh of relief. Then of course they didn't touch the silver, but there was a lot of greenbacks over 25,000 I think. The asset will know, and I don't know how much gold is gone. Look around and see if they left anything incriminating Sheriff, anything that we can trace him by. He heard a poor old Lars Cumming, said the Sheriff. Then after he shot him, he hadn't the nerve to come back for the gold. This strikes me as being a bungler's job. Must I used an awful lot of dynamite to tear that door up like that? Funny, no one heard the explosion. Can't be much of your gold gone, Lake. That compartment is pretty nearly as full as it will hold. Or heard him shoot our watchman, suggested Thompson. Still, I don't know. There's blasting going on in the hills all the time, and almost everyone was at the masquerade or else asleep. How many times did they shoot old Lars? Does anybody know? Is there any idea what time it was done? He was shot once right here, said Alec, indicating the spot on the flowered silk that had been part of his Mandarin's dress. The gun was held so close it burned his shirt. Off a hole, don't believe the old chapel make it, he crawled along toward the telephone station till he dropped. Say, Central must have heard that shot. It's only two blocks away. She ought to be able to tell what time it was. Lars said it was just before midnight, said Clark. Oh, did he speak? Asked Lake. How many robbers were there? Did he know any of them? He didn't see anybody, shot just as he reached the window. Oh, someone hangs for this, said Clark. Lake, I wish you'd have this money picked up. I'm not used to walking on gold, or else have me watched. Lake shook his head, angry at the untimely pleasantry. It was a pleasantry in effect only, put forward to hide uneditorial agitation and distress for Lars Porcina. Lake's undershot jaw thrust forward. He fingered the blot of whisker at his ear. It was a time for action, not for talk. He began his campaign. Look here, Sheriff, you ought to wire up and down the line to keep a lookout, hold all suspicious characters, then get a posse to ride for some sign around the town. If we only had something to go on, some clue, later we'll look through this town with a fine tooth comb. Most likely they, or he, if there was only one, won't risk staying here. First of all, I've got to telegraph to El Paso for money to save off a run on the bank. You'll help me, Thompson? Of course my burglar insurance will make good my loss, or most of it, but that'll take time. We mustn't risk a run. People lose their heads, so I'll give you a statement for the day, Clark, as soon as I find out where Mr. Thompson stands. I will back you up, sir, with the bulk of depositors' money loaned out. No bank, however solvent, can withstand a continued run without backing. I shall be glad to tide you over, if only for my own protection. A panic is contagious. Thanks, said Lake Shortley, interrupting this stately financial discourse, then we shall do nicely. Let's see. Tomorrow's payday. You fellows, he turned it briskly to the two superintendents. Can't you hold up your payday, say, until Saturday? Stand your men off. The company stands good for their money. They can wait a while. Oh, no need to do that. I'll have the railroad checks drawn on St. Louis. The storekeepers will cash them. If necessary, I'll wire for authority to let Turnbow pay off the mill hands with railroad checks. It's just taking money from one pocket to put in the other anyhow. Then that's all right. Now for the robbers. The banker's face betrayed impatience. My first duty was to protect my clients, but now we'll waste no more time. You gentlemen make a close search for any possible scrap of evidence while the sheriff and I write our telegrams. I must wire the burglar insurance company, too. He plunged a pin into an inkwell and fell to work. Acting upon this hint, the sheriff took a desk. Wish Phillips was here, my deputy, he said. I've sent for him. He's got a better head than I have for noticing clues and things. This was eminently correct, as well as modest. The sheriff was a Simon Pure Arcadian, the company's nominee. His deputy was a concession to the disgruntled hinterland where the unobservant rarely reached maturity. Oh, Alec, said Lake over his shoulder, you sit down, too, and wire all your conductors about their passengers last night. Yes, and the freight crews, too. We'll rush those through first. And can't you scare up another operator? His pen scratched steadily over the paper. More apt to be some of our local outlaws, though. In that case, it will be easier to find their trail. They'll probably be on horseback. You were an old timer yourself, weren't you not? Ask Billy aimably. If the robbers are frontiersmen, they may be easier to get track of, as you suggest. But won't they be harder to get? Billy spoke languidly. The others were searching assiduously for clues in the most approved manner, but Billy sprawled easily in a chair. We'll get him if we can find out who they were, snapped Lake, setting his strong jaw. He did not particularly like Billy, especially since their late trip to Rainbow. There never was a man yet so good, but there was one just a little better. By a good man in this connection, you mean a bad man, I presume, said Billy in a meditative draw. Were you a good man before you became a banker? Look here, what's this? The interruption came from Clark. He pounced down among two fragments of the safe door and brought up an object which he held to the light. At the startled tones, Lake spun around in a swivel chair. He held out his hand. Really, I don't think I ever saw anything like this thing before, he said. Any of you know what it is? It's a nose guard, said Billy. Billy was a college man and had worn a nosepiece himself. He frowned unconsciously, remembering his successful rival of the masquerade. A nose guard? What for? You wear it to protect your nose and teeth when you're playing football, explained Billy. Keeps you from swearing, too. You hold this piece between your teeth and the other part goes over your nose, up between your eyes, and fastens with his band around your forehead. Why, why, gasped Clark? There was a man at the masquerade talked out as a football player. I saw him, said Alec, and he wore one of these things. I saw him talking to Topsy. One of my guests demanded late scoffingly. Oh, nonsense. Some young fella has been in here yesterday talking to the clerks and dropped it. Who went as a football player? White. You know all these college boys. Know anything about this one? Not a thing. There, Billy lied. A prompt and loyal gentleman, reasoning that Budinsky, as he mentally styled the interloper, who had misappropriated the Quaker lady, would have cared nothing at that time for a paltry thirty thousand. Thus was he guilty of a practice against which we are all vainly warned of judging others by ourselves. Billy remembered very distinctly that Miss Eleanor had not reappeared until the midnight unmasking, and he therefore acquitted her companion of this particular crime entirely without prejudice to Budinsky's felonious instincts in general, for the watchman had been shot before midnight. Billy made a tentative mental decision that this famous nose-guard had been brought to the bank later and left there purposely, and he resolved to keep his eye open. Oh, well, it's no great difference anyhow, said Lake. Whoever it was dropped it here yesterday, I guess, and got another one for the masquerade. Hold on there, said Clark, holding the spotlight tenaciously. That don't go. This thing was on top of one of those pieces of the safe. For the first time, Lake was startled from his iron composure. Are you sure he demanded jumping up? Sure, it was right here against the sloping side of this piece. So that puts a different light on the case, gentlemen, said Lake. Luck is with us, and while I think of it, said Clark, making the most of this unexpected opportunity, I made notes of all the costumes and their wearers after the masks were off for the paper, you know, and I saw no football player there. I remember that distinctly. I only saw him the one time, confirmed Alec, and I stayed almost to the break-up. Whoever it was, he left early. But what possible motive could the robber have for going to the dance at all, queried Lake in perplexity? Maybe he made his appearance there in a football suit purposely, so as to leave us someone to hunt for and then committed the robbery and went back in another costume, suggested Clark, pleased and not a little surprised at his own ingenuity. In that case, he would have left this rubber thing here of design. Hmm, Lake was plainly struck with this theory, and that's not such a bad idea either. We'll look into this football matter after breakfast. You'll go to the hotel with me, gentlemen. Our womankind are all asleep after the ball. The sheriff will send someone to guard the bank. Meanwhile, I'll call the cashier in and find out exactly how much money we're short. Send the basset in, will you, Billy? You stay at the door and keep that mob out. End of chapter seven. Chapter eight of Brandsford of Rainbow Range by Eugene Manlove-Roads. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter eight, Arkadez Ambo. What means this, my lord? Mary, this is Milching Milatio. It means Miss Jeff. Hamlet. We are not here to do what service we may for honor and not for hire. Robert Louis Stevenson. With Billy went the sheriff and Alec, the latter with the chief of telegrams. Now, how did Badinsky's noseguard get into this bank? That's what I'd like to know, said Billy to the doorknob when the other committeemen had gone their ways. I didn't bring it. I don't believe Badinsky did. And Policeman Lake certainly saw us quarreling. He noticed the football player right enough and he pretends he didn't. Why? Why? Why does Policeman Lake pretend he didn't see that football player? Echo answers, oh, why? Denmark's all putrified. The low sun cleared the house tops, the level rays fell along the windowsill and Billy, staring fascinated at the single blotch of dried blood on the inner sill, saw something glitter and sparkle there beside it. He went closer. It was a dust of finely powdered glass. Billy whistled. A light foot ran up the steps. There was a wrap at the door. No entrance except on business. No business transacted here, quoted Billy, startled from a deep study. A head appeared at the window. Oh, it's you, Jimmy. That's different. Come in. It was Jimmy Phillips, the chief deputy. Billy knew him and liked him. He unbarred the door. Well, anything turned up yet, demanded Jimmy. I stopped in to see Lars. Him and me was old side partners. How's he making it, Jimmy? Oh, Doc said he had one chance and 10,000. So he's all right, I guess, responded that brisk optimist. They got any theory about the robber? They have that, a perfectly sound theory too. Only it isn't true, said Billy in a low and guarded tone. They'll tell you, I haven't got time. See here, if I give you the straight tip, will you work it up and to keep your head closed until you see which way the cat jumps? Can you keep it to yourself? Mom has a sack of clams, said Jimmy. Look at this a minute. Billy pointed to the tiny particles of glass on the inner sill. Got that? Then I'll dust it off. This is a case for your gummiest shoes. Now, look at this. He indicated the opening where the patch of glass had been cut from the big pane. Jimmy rubbed his finger very cautiously along the raw edge of glass. Cut out from the inside, then carried out there. A frame up? Exactly, but I don't want anybody else to size it up for a frame up, not now. But, said Jimmy, good-naturedly, I'd have seen all that myself after a little if you hadn't have showed me. Yes, said Billy dryly and then told somebody, that's why I brushed the glass dust off. I've got inside information, some that I'm going to share with you and some that I'm not going to tell even you. Trotted out, Lake had the key of this front door in the policeman's uniform that he wore to the dance. Isn't that queer? If I were you, I'd very quietly find out whether he went home to get that key after he got word that the bank was robbed. He was still in the ballroom when he got the message. You think it's a put up job? Why? There is something not just right about the man Lake. His mind is two ball bearing all together. He heard those chumps in there round like so many sheep. He used them to make discoveries with and then showed them how to force them on him. Oh, they made a heap of progress. They've got evidence enough up in there to hang John the Baptist with Lake all the time setting back in the breaching like a bulky horse. It's Lake's bank and the banks got burglar's insurance. Got that? If he gets the money and the insurance too, see? And I happen to know that he has been bucking the market. I dropped a roll with him myself. Then there's a revenge, as they say on the stage and something else beside. Has Lake any bitter enemies? Oodles of them. But one worse than the others. One he hates most. Jimmy thought for a while and then he nodded, Jeff Bransford, I reckon. Is he in town? Not that I know of. Well, I never heard of you, Mr. Bransford, but he's in town. All right, all right. You see, a Lake's got a case cooked up that'll hang someone higher than Amen. And I'll bet the first six years of my life against a Dr. Cook lecture ticket that the first letter of someone's name is Jeff Bransford. Maybe Jeff can prove he was somewhere else to suggest to Jimmy? Billy evaded the issue. What sort of a man is this Bransford? Any good? Besides being an enemy of Lakes, I mean. Mr. Bransford is one whom we all delight to humor, announced the deputy after some reflection. Friend of yours? Jimmy reflected again. Well, yes, he said. He limps a little in the cold weather and I got a little small ditch plowed in my skull, but our horses was both young and wild and the boys rode in between us before there was any harm done. I pulled him out of the paco since that, too, and poured some several barrels of water out of him. Yes, we're good friends, I reckon. He'll shoot back on proper occasion, then. A good sport? Stand the gaff. On proper occasion, enjoying to Jimmy, the other man will shoot back if he's lucky. Yes, sir, Jeff's certainly one dead game sport at any turn in the road. Considering the source and spirit of your information, you sadden me, said Billy, the better man he is, the better chance to hang. Has he got any close friends here? He seldom ever comes here, said Jimmy. All his friends is on rainbow, especially South Rainbow, but his particular side partners is all away just now. These ways all but one. Can't you write to that one? The deputy grinned hugely and tell him to come break Jeff out of jail, said he. That don't seem hardly right, consideran. You write to him, Johnny Deena's, Morningside. You might wire up to Cloud Len and have it forwarded from there. I'll pay. Billy made a note of it. They'll be out here in a jiffy now, he said. Now, Jimmy, you listen to all they tell you. Follow it up. Make no comments. Don't see anything and don't miss anything. Let Lake think he's having it all his own way and he'll make some kind of a break that will give him away. We haven't got a thing against him yet, except the right guess. And you be careful to catch your friend without a fight. When you get him, I want you to give him a message from me, but don't mention any name. Tell him to keep a stiff upper lip that the devil takes care of his own. Say the devil told you himself, in person. I don't want you to show him my hand. I'm on the other side. See, that way I can be in Lake's counsels. Force myself in, if necessary, after this morning. You think that if you give Lake rope enough? Exactly. Here they come. I hear their chairs. Blonde or brunette, said Jimmy casually. Now, what's that? The something else that you wouldn't tell me about? Jimmy explained, is she blonde or brunette? Oh, go to hell, said Billy. End of chapter eight. Chapter nine of Bransford of Rainbow Range by Eugene Manlove-Roads. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter nine, Taken. Lord Huntley, then, he did speak out. Oh, fair Mottfah, his body, I hear we'll fight double a delayne or on a thing, Ailes Geordie. Whom has he robbed? What has he stole? Or has he killed on me? Or what's the crime that he has done? His foes, they are so money. Old ballad. Hugh and Crye, Hubbub and Mystery, swept the Isle of Arcady that morning, but the most painstaking search and query proved fruitless. It developed beyond doubt that the football man had not been seen since his one brief appearance on the ballroom floor. Search was transferred to the mainland, where, as it neared noon, Lake's perseverance and thoroughness were rewarded. In Chihuahua suburb, beyond the north wall, Lake noted a sweat-marked red-grown horse in the yard of Rosalio Marquez, better known by reason of his profession as Monte. Straightway the manker reported this possible clue to the sheriff and to Billy, who was as tireless and determined in the chase as Lake himself. The other masqueraders had mostly abandoned the chase. He found them on the bridge of the La Luz Salliport. It may be worth looking into, Lake advised the sheriff, better send someone to Reconoiter, someone not known to be connected with your office. You go, Billy, if you find anything suspicious, the sheriff can phone to the hospital if he needs me. I'm going over to see how the old watchman is, ought to have gone before. If he gets well, I must do something handsome for him. Billy fell in with this request. He had a well-founded confidence in Lake's luck, and attached much more significance to the trifling matter of the red-grown horse than did the original discoverer, especially since the discoverer had bethought himself to go to the hospital on an errand of mercy. Billy now confidently expected early developments, and he preferred personally to conduct the arrest so that he might interfere if necessary to prevent any wasting of good cartridges. He did not expect much trouble, however, providing the affair was conducted tactfully, reasoning that a dead-game sport with a clean conscience and a light heart would not seriously object to a small arrest. Poor Billy's own heart was none of the lightest as he went on this loyal service to his presumably favored rival. He accompanied the sheriff beyond the outwards to the Mexican quarter. Near the place indicated by the banker, Billy left his wheel and strolled casually around the block. He saw the red-grown steed and noted the double-rainbow branded on his thigh. Monty was leaning in the adobe doorway, rolling a cigarette. Billy knew him in a business way. �Hello, Monty. Good horse you got there. There's Noth's horse,� said Monty. �Wanna sell him? Easy to know, my horse,� explained Monty. �He's a buffrin. I like his looks,� said Billy, �as your friend here, or if he's downtown, what's his name? I'd like to buy that horse. He is within, but he's not a parent, he is dorminando, yes, asleepin. It was last night to the bail mascarade. Billy nodded, �Yes, I was there myself�. He decided to take a risk, assuming that his calculations were correct. X must equal Bransford. So he said to carelessly, �Let's see, Bransford went as a sailor, didn't he? Un marinero? Oh, no. He was a tired like one carecasse, what you call these things, un ballon, para juger un los pits. Ah, sisi, one the footballer, myself, I come soon back. I have no business. The best people leave all for the dance,� said Monty, with hand turned up and the shrugging shoulder. �Do me the noche, twelve o'clock, I am here back. I find here the ores of my friend, and one got a letter that I am not to lock the door. Boque, he may come to asleep, so I make a dual repose myself. Later I am o'rose, my friend, and to retire himself. Ah, que hombre, I am not to a smile, to see him in these so ridiculous of astitos. As a poor gay, ah, que Jeff, in all ways, these is a man, ver suficienté, corregias, estrón, formidable, yet he is keep the disposition, the heart of a simple little child, un muchacho. I'll come again,� said Billy, and passed on. He had found out what he had come for. The absence of concealment dispelled any lingering doubt of Jeff Butinsky, yet he could establish no alibi by Monty. Perhaps Billy White may require here a little explanation. All things considered, Billy thought Jeff would be better off in jail with a friend in the opposite camp working for his interest than getting himself foolishly killed by a hasty posse. If we are cynical, we may say that, being young, Billy was not averse to the role of Deus ex machina. Perhaps a thought of friendly gratitude was not lacking. And to adventure for adventure's sake is motive enough, in youth. Or as a final self-revelation, we may hint that if Jeff was a rival, so too was Lake, and one more eligible. Let us not be cynical, however, or cowardly. Let us say at once, shamelessly, what we very well know, that youth is the season for clean honor and high empress. That boy's love is best and truest of all. The poor honest Billy, in his own dogged and fantastic way, but sought to give true service where he loved. There we have said it, and we are shamed. How old are you, sir? Forty? Fifty? Most actions are the result of mixed motives, you say? Well, that is a notable concession, at your age. Let it go at that. Billy then acted from mixed motives. When Billy brought back his motives, and the sheriff, Monte still held his negligent attitude in the doorway. He waved a graceful salute. I want to see Bransford, said the sheriff. He is asleep in, said Monte. Well I want to see him anyway. The sheriff laid a brusque hand on the gate latch. Monte waved his cigarette eerily, flicked the ash from the end with a slender finger, and once more demonstrated that the hand is quicker than the eye. The portentously steady gun in the hand was the first intimation to the eye that the hand had moved at all. It was a very large gun, as to calibre, the sheriff noted, as it was pointed directly at his nose he was favourably situated to observe, looking along the barrel that the hammer stood at full cock. Perhaps you have some papers for him, suggested Monte with gentle and delicate deference. He still leaned against the door-jam, but if not, it is best that you do not into these mighty louse to disturb my guest. That would be to commit a rudeness, no? The sheriff was a sufficiently brave man, if not precisely a brilliant one, yet he showed now intelligence of the highest order. He dropped the latch. You, Billy, stop your laughing. Do you know, Mr. Monte, I think you are quite right. He observed, with a smiling politeness, equal to Monte's own. That would be rude, certainly. My mistake. An Englishman's house is his castle, that sort of thing. If you will excuse me, now we will go and get the papers, as you so kindly pointed out. They went away, the sheriff, Billy, and motives, Billy still laughing, immoderately. Monte went inside and stirred up his guest with the prodding boot-toe. Mr. Jeff, he demanded, what are you going to do with now? Jeff sat up, rumpled his hair, and rubbed his eyes. Zeepen, he said, and before, okay, the sheriff, he has been to make a rest of you, I think. Me, said Jeff, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, I haven't done anything that I can remember now. Sure, no small little crime, and not last night. Me, I just got up. I have not here. Jeff considered this suggestion carefully. No, I am sure, not for years. Some mistake, I guess, or maybe he just wanted to see me about something else. Why didn't he come in? I me, clare cra, savim, that he do not, said Monte. I see, Jeff laughed, come on, we'll go see him, you don't want to get into trouble. They crossed the bridge and met the sheriff, just within the fortifications, returning in a crowded automobile. Jeff held up his hand. The machine stopped and the posse deployed, except Billy, who acted as chauffeur. You wanted to see me, sheriff, at the hotel? Why yes, if you don't mind, said the sheriff. Good dinner, I ain't had breakfast yet. First class, said the sheriff, orgely, what'd your friend come to? Ah, senor, you ashamed me that I am not so auspity-bubble, easy to not, purved Monte, as he followed Jeff into the to-know. The sheriff reddened, and Billy choked. Nothing of the sort, said the sheriff hastily, lapsing into literalness. You were quite within your rights. For that matter, I know you were at your own bank, dealing when the crime was committed. I am holding you for the present as a possible accessory, but if not, then, as a material witness. By the way, Monte, would you mind if I sent some men to look through your place? There is a matter of some thirty thousand dollars missing. Lake asked us to look for it. I have papers for it, if you care to see them. Oh, no, senor, said Monte, he handed over a key, lachhassa essuia. Thank you, said the sheriff, with unmoved gravity. Anything of yours you wanted to bring, Bransford? I know, said Jeff cheerfully. I've got nothing there but my saddle, my gun, and an old football suit that belongs to Jean Baird over on the west side. But if you want me to stay long, I wish you'd look after my horse. I too have left there, my gun, and I keep to protect my deedle house, observed Monte. Tell them one to keep it for me, I'm much attacked to that gun. Why, yes, I've seen that gun, I think, said the sheriff. They'll look out for it. All right, Billy? The car turned back. Oh, you were speaking about Monte being an accessory. I didn't get in till way past night, and I've been asleep all day, said Jeff apologetically. Might I ask before or after exactly what fact Monte was an accessory? Bank robbery, for one thing. Ah, that would be Lake's bank. Anything else? The sheriff was not a patient man, and he had borne much. Also he liked Lars Borsina. Perfection, even in trifles, is rare and wins affection. He turned on Jeff with an angry growl. Murder. Lake? Did Jeff, hopefully? The sheriff continued, ignoring, and indeed only half-sensing, the purport of Jeff's comment. At least the wound may not be mortal. That's too bad, said Jeff. He was, if possible, more cheerful than ever. The sheriff glared at him, Billy, from the front seat, through a word of explanation over his shoulder. It's not Lake. The watchman. Oh, old Lars Borsina. That's different. Not a bad sort, Lars. Maybe he'll get well. Hope so. And I shot him. Dear me, when did it happen? You will find out soon enough, said the sheriff grimly. Your preliminary's right away. Hell, I haven't had breakfast yet, Jeff protested. Feed us first, or we won't be tried at all. Within the jail, while the sheriff spoke with his warder, it occurred to Billy that since Jimmy Phillips was not to be seen, he might as well carry his own friendly message. He said, guardedly, bug up, old man, keep a stiff upper lip, and be careful what you say. This is only your preliminary trial, remember. Lots of things may happen before court sets. The devil looks after his own, you know. Jeff had a good ear for voices, however, and Billy's moustache still kept more than a hint of methistopheles. Jeff slowly surveyed Billy's natty attire, with a lingering and insulting interest for such evidences of prosperity as silken hojiri and a rather fervid scarf pin. At last his eye met Billy's, and Billy was blushing. Does he, brawled Jeff languidly, ah, you own the car, then. Poor Billy. Notwithstanding the ingratitude of this rebuff, Billy sought out Jimmy Phillips and recounted to him the circumstances of the arrest. Oh, naughty, naughty, said the deputy, caressing his nose. Lake's been a cowman on rainbow. He knew the brand on that horse, he knew Jeff was chummy with Monty. He knew in all reason that Jeff was in there, and most likely he knew it all the time. So he sneaks off to see Lars, after shooting him from ambush damn him, and sends you to take Jeff. Looks like he might be willing for you and Jeff to damage either which, or both, of yourselves as the case may be. It looks so, said Billy. Must be a fine girl, murmured Jimmy, absently. Well, what are you going to do? Looks pretty plain. It looks plain to us, but we haven't got a single tangible thing against Lake yet. We had to be laughed out of court if we brought an accusation against him. We'll have to wait and keep our eyes open. You're sure Lake did it? There was no rubber nosepiece at Monty's house, or the rest of the football outfit, but not that. That looks bad for Jeff. On the contrary, that is the strongest link against Lake. I daresay Badensky, Mr. Ransford, is imminently capable of bank robbery at odd moments, but I know approximately where that noseguard was at sharp midnight after the watchman was shot. Here, Billy swore mentally, having a very definite guess as to how Jeff might have lost the noseguard. Lake, Clark, Turnbow, Thompson, Alec, or myself, one of the six of us, brought that noseguard to the bank after the robbery, and only one of the six had a motive and a key. Only one of you had a key, corrected Jimmy cruelly, but can't Jeff prove where he was, maybe? He won't. I'd sure like to see her, said Jimmy. End of Chapter 9 Chapter 10 of Bransford of Rainbow Range by Eugene Manlob Rhodes, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain, Chapter 10, The Alibi. And all loves clanging trumpets, shocked and blue. The executioner's argument was that you couldn't cut off ahead unless there was a body to cut it off from, that he had never had to do such a thing before, and it wasn't going to begin at his time of life. Alice in Wonderland. The justice of the peace, when the county court was not in session, held hearings in the courtroom proper, which occupied the entire second story of the county courthouse. The room was crowded. It was a new courthouse, there are people impatient to try even a new hearse, and this bad fair-to-be, Arcadia's first co-celebre. Jeff sat in the prisoner's stall, a target for boring eyes. He was conscious of an undesirable situation. Exactly how tight a place it was, he had no means of knowing, until he should have heard the evidence. The room was plainly hostile. Black looks were cast upon him. Deputy Phillips, as he entered arm in arm with a some-time devil, gave the prisoner an intent but non-committal look, which Jeff rightly interpreted as assurance of a friend in ambush. He felt unaccountably sure of the devil's fraternal aid. Montay, allowing behind the rail of the witness-box, smiled across at him. Still, he would have felt better for another friendly face or two, he thought, save John Wesley Pringles. Jeff looked from the open window. Cottonwoods, well watered, gave swiftest growth of any trees, and are therefore the dominant feature of new communities in dry lands. The courthouse-yard was crowded with them. Jeff from the window could see nothing but their green plumes, and his thoughts ran naturally upon gardens, or to be more accurate, upon a garden. Would she lose faith in him? Had she heard yet, would he be able to clear himself? No mere acquittal would do. Because of Eleanor there must be no question, no verdict of not proven. She would go east to-morrow. Perhaps she would not hear of his arrest at all. He hoped not. The bank robbery. The murder. Yes, she would hear of them, perhaps. But why need she hear his name? Hers was a world so different. He fell into amuse at this. Deputy Phillips passed and stood close to him, looking down from the window. His back was to Jeff, but under cover of the confused hum of many voices, he spake low from the corner of his mouth. Lay your hand close to your buzzer-mold-timer, wait for the draw, and watch the dealer. He strolled over to the other side of the judicial bench, whence he came. This vulgar speech betrayed Jimmy as one given to evil courses, but to Jeff that muttered warning was welcome as thunder of Blucher's squadrons to British squares at Waterloo. Down the aisle came a procession consciously important, the prosecuting attorney, the bank's lawyer, who was to assist for the people, and Lake himself. As they passed the gate, Jeff smiled his sweetest, hello Wally, Lake's name was Stephen Walter. Wally made no verbal response, but his undershot jaw did the steel trap act, and there was a triumphant glitter in his eye. He turned his broad back pointedly, and Jeff smiled again. The justice took his seat on the raised dais, intervening between Jeff and the sheriff's desk. Court was opened. The usual tedious preliminaries followed. Jeff waved a jury trial, refused a lawyer, and announced that he would call no witnesses at present. In an impressive stillness the prosecutor rose for his opening statement. Condensed, it recounted the history of the crime so far as known. Fixed the time by the watchman's statement to be confirmed, he said by another witness, the telephone girl on duty at that hour, who had heard the explosion and the ensuing gunshot. Touched upon that watchman's faithful service, and his present desperate condition, he told of the late finding of the injured man, the meeting in the bank, the sum taken by the robber, and the discovery in the bank of the rubber-nose piece, which he submitted as exhibit A. He cited the witnesses, by whom he would prove each statement, and laid special stress upon the fact that the witness clerk would testify that the nose-piece had been found upon the shattered fragments of the safe door, conclusive proof that it had been dropped after the crime. And he then held forth at some length upon the hand of Providence, as manifested in the unconscious self-betrayal, which had frustrated and brought to naught the prisoner's fiendish designs. On the whole he spoke well of Providence. Now Jeff had not once thought of the discarded nose-guard since he first found it in his way. He began to see how tightly the net was drawn around him. There was a serpent in the garden, he reflected. A word from Miss Hoffman would set him free. If she gave that word at once, it would be unpleasant for her. But if she gave it later, as a last resort, it would be more than unpleasant. And in that same hurried moment Jeff knew that he would not call upon her for that word. All his crowded life he had kept the happy knack of falling on his feet. The stars that fought in their courses against his sara had ever fought for reckless Bransford. He decided, with lovable folly, to trust to chance, to his wits, and to his friends. And now your honour we come to the unbreakable chain of evidence, which fatally links the prisoner at the bar to this crime. We will prove that the prisoner was not invited to the masquerade ball given last night by Mr. Lake. We will prove, there was a stir in the courtroom, the prosecutor paused, disconcerted. Eyes were turned to the double door at the back of the courtroom. In the entry at the head of the stairs huddled a group of shrinking girls. Before them one foot upon the threshold stood Eleanor Hoffman. She took off a detaining hand and stepped into the room, head erect, proud, pale. Across the sea of curious faces her eyes met the prisoners. Of all the courtroom Billy and Deputy Phillips alone turned then to watch Jeff's face. They saw an almost imperceptible shake of his head, a finger on lip, a reassuring gesture. They saw too the quick pulse beat at his throat. The colour flooded back to Eleanor's face. Men nearest the door were swift to bring chairs. The prosecutor resumed his interrupted speech. His voice was deep, hard, vibrant. Your honour, the counts against this man are fairly damning. We will prove that he was shaved in a barbershop in Arcadia at ten o'clock last night, that he then rode a roan horse, that the horse was then sweating profusely, that this horse was afterward found at the house of, oh, but we will take that up later. We will prove, by many witnesses, that among the masqueraders was a man wearing a football suit, wearing a nose be similar, entirely similar, to the one found in the bank, which now lies before you. We will prove that this football player was not seen in the ballroom after the hour of eleven p.m. We will prove that when he was next seen without the ballroom, it was not until sufficient time had elapsed for him to have committed this awful crime. Eleanor half rose from her seat. Again Jeff flashed a warning at her. We will prove this, your honour, by a most unwilling witness, a Rosalio Marquez, Monti smiled across at Jeff, a friend of the prisoner who in his behalf has not scrupled to defy the majesty of the law. We can prove, by this witness, this reluctant witness, that when he returned to his home shortly after midnight, he found there the prisoner's horse, which had not been there, when Mr. Marquez left the house some four hours previously, and that at some time subsequent to twelve o'clock, the witness, Marquez, was awakened by the entrance of the prisoner at the bar, clad in a football suit, but wearing no nosebees with it. And we have the evidence of the Sheriff's posse that they found in the home of the witness, Rosalio Marquez, the football suit, which we offer as Exhibit B. Nay more, the prisoner did not deny, and indeed admitted, that this uniform was his, but mark this, the searching party found no nosebees there. It is true, your honour, that the stolen money was not found upon the prisoner, it is true that the prisoner made no use of the opportunity to escape, offered him by his lawless and his reputable friend, Rosalio Marquez, a common gambler. Doubtless, your honour, his cunning had devised some diabolical plan upon which he relied to absolve himself from suspicion. And now, trembling, he has for the first time learned of the fatal flaw in his concocted defence, which he had so fondly deemed invincible. All eyes, including the orators, here turned upon the prisoner, to find him, so far from trembling, quite otherwise engaged. The prisoner's elbow was upon the rail, his chin in his hand. He regarded Mr. Lake attentively, with cheerful amusement and a quizzical smile, which in some way subtly carried an expression of mockery and malicious triumph. To this, fixed and disconcerting regard, Mr. Lake opposed an iron front, but the effort required was apparent to all. There was an uneasy rustling through the court. The prisoner's bearing was convincing, natural. This was no mere brazen assuming. The banker's forced composure was not natural. He should have been an angry banker. Of the two men, Lake was the less at ease. The prisoner's face turned at last towards the door. Blank unrecognition was in his eyes as they swept past Eleanor, but he shook his head once more, very slightly. There was a sense of mystery in the air, a buzz and a burr of whispers, a rustle of moving feet. The audience noticeably relaxed its implacable attitude toward the accused. I'd him, with a different interest, seemed to feel for the first time that, after all, he was accused merely, and that his defence had not yet been heard. The prosecutor felt this subtle change. It blamed his periods. It is true, Your Honor, that no I, save God, saw this guilty man do this deed, but the web of circumstantial evidence is so closely drawn, so far-reaching, so unanswerable, so damning, that no defense can avail him, except the improbable, the impossible establishment of an alibi, so complete, so convincing, as to satisfy even his bitterest enemy. We will ask you, Your Honor, when you have seen how fully the evidence bears out our every contention, to commit the prisoner without bail, to answer the charge of robbery and attempted murder. Then by the door Jeff saw the girl start up. She swept down the aisle, radiant, brave, unfearing, resolute, all half-God's gone. She shone at him, proud, glowing, prionphant. A hush fell upon the thrilled room. Jeff was on his feet, his hand held out to stay here. His eyes spoke to hers. She stopped as at a command. Very slower, Billy was at her side. Wait, wait! He whispered, see what he has to say. There will be always time for that. Jeff's eyes held hers. She sank into an offered chair. Cheated, disappointed, the court took breath again. Their dramatic moment had been nothing but their own nerves. Their own excited imaginations had attached a pulse-fluttering significance to the flushed cheeks of a prying girl, seeking a better place to see and hear, to gratify her morbid curiosity. Jeff turned to the bench. Your honour, I have a perfectly good line of defence, and I trust no friend of mine will undertake to change it. I will keep you but a minute, he said colloquially. I will not waste your time combating the ingenious theory which the prosecution has built up, or in cross-examination of their witnesses, who I feel sure, here he bowed to the cloud of witnesses, will testify only to the truth. I quite agree with my learned friend, another graceful bow, that the case he has so ably presented is so strong that it can successfully be rebutted only by an alibi so clear and so incontestable, as my learned friend has so aptly phrased it, as to convince, if not satisfy, my bitterest enemy. The bow, the subtle, icy indonation, edged the words. The courtroom thrilled again at the unswoken thought, and enemy hath done this thing. If in the stillness the prisoner had quoted the words aloud in fierce denunciation, the effect could not have been different or more startling, and that, your honour, is precisely what I propose to do. His honour was puzzled. He was a good judge of men, and the prisoner's face was not a bad face. But, he objected, you have refused to call any witnesses for the defence. Your unsupported word will count for nothing. You cannot prove an alibi alone. Can't I, said Jeff, watch me. With a single motion he was through the open window. Bending branches of the nearest cottonwood broke his fall. The other trees hid his flight. Behind him rose uproar, tumult and alabalu, a mass of struggling men at cross-purposes. Gun in hand, the sheriff, stumbling over someone's foot, Montes, ran to the window. But the faithful deputy was before him, blocking the way, firing with loving care at one particular tree-trunk. He was a good shot, Jimmy. The afterward showed with pride where each ball had struck in a scant six-inch space. Mainly the sheriff tried to force his way through. There was but one stairway, and it was jammed. Before the foremost pursuer had reached the open, Jeff had borrowed one of the saddled horses hitched at the rack, and was away to the hills. As Billy struggled through the press, searching for Eleanor, he found himself at Jimmy's elbow. A dead game-sport, any, turned in the road, agreed Billy. The deputy nodded curtly. And his answer was inconsequent, rather in the brunette line that bid a tangible evidence. End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 of Bransford of Rainbow Range by Eugene Manlove-Rhoads This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 11. The Nettle. Danger. Bushela wheat, Bushela rye, all a ready holler rye. Hide-and-seek. The whole mountain lies lost in the desert, dwarfed by the greatness all about. Its form is that of a crater, split from north to south into irregular halves. Through that narrow cleft ran a straight road, once the well-traveled thoroughfare from Rainbow to El Paso. For there was precious water within those upheaved walls. It was but three miles from portal to portal, the slight climb to the divide had not been grudged. Time was when campfires were nightly merry to light the narrow cliffs of Double Mountain. When songs were gay to echo from them, when this had been the only watering-place to break the long span across the desert. The railroad had changed all this, and the silent leagues of that old road lay untrodden in the sun. Not untrodden on this day after Jeff had established his alibi. A traveller followed that lonely road to Double Mountain, and behind, halfway to Rainbow Range, was a streak of dust, which gained on him. The traveller's sorrow-horse was weary, for it was the very horse Jeff Bransford had borrowed from the itching rail of the Courthouse Square. The traveller was that able negotiator himself, and the pursuing dust, to the best of Jeff's knowledge and belief, meant him no good tidings. Now, I got safe away from the foothills before day, so little wise Jeff. Some gentleman has overtaken me with his spy-glass, I reckon. Civilizations getting this country plum-ruined, and their horses are fresh. Pegalong alibi, maybe I can pick up a stray horse at Double Mountain. If I can't, there's no sort of use trying to get away on you. I'll play hide-and-seek'em. That'll let you out anyway, so cheer up. You're done fine, old man. If I ever get out of this, I'll buy you and make it all right with you. Bent on you off, if you think you'll like it. Get along now. Twenty miles to Jeff's right, the railroad parallel, the wagon road, in an unbroken tangent of ninety miles stretch, a southbound passenger train crawled along the west like a resolute centipede, plodding to a date. Behind the fugitive, abreast, now far behind, creeping along the shining straightaway. Forty miles the hour was her schedule, yet against this vast horizon she could hardly be said to change place until, sighting beyond her puny length, a new angle of the far western wall completed, the Trinomial line. Escondido was hidden in a dip of plain, whence the name, hidden, when done into Saxon speech. The train was lost to sight when she stopped there, but Jeff saw the tiny steam-plume of her whistling rise in the clear and taintless air. Long after, the faint sound of it hummed drowsily by, like passing far-blown horns of ferry in a dream. And at no great interval thereafter a low-lying dust appeared suddenly on the hither rim of Escondido's sunken valley. Jeff knew the land as you know your hallway. That line of dust marked the trail from Escondido valley to the farther gate of Double Mountain. Even if he should be lucky enough to get a change of mounts at the spring in Double Mountain Basin, he would be intercepted. Escape by flight was impossible. To fight his way out was impossible. He had no gun, and even if he had a gun he could not see his way to fight under the circumstances. The men who hunted him down were only doing the right thing as they saw it. Had Jeff been guilty it would have been a different affair. Being innocent he could make no fight for it. He was cornered. Said the little Leopas, I'm going to be a horse. So chanted Jeff, perceiving the hopelessness of his plight. The best gift to man, or if not the best, then at least the rarest, is the power to meet the emergency. To do your best and a little better than your best when nothing less will serve, to be a pinch-hitter. It is to be thought that certain stages of affection, and more particularly the presence of its object, affect unfavorably the workings of pure intellect. Certain it is that capable Bransford, who had cut so sorry a figure in Eden Garden, now in these distressing but evilous circumstances, rose to the occasion. Granted resourceful he grasped every possible angle of the situation, and with the rope virtually about his neck, cheerfully planned the impossible, the essence of his elastic plan being to climb that very rope hand over hand to safety. Going round the mountain is no good on a give-out horse. They'll follow my tracks, said Jeff to Jeff. Men who are much alone so shape their thoughts by voicing them. As you practice conversation, rather to make your own thought clear to yourself, than to enlighten your neighbor. Just a slip of the tongue, Betheno is the Spanish for neighbor, you know. Not so much to enlighten your neighbor as to find out for yourself precisely what it is you think. Hiding in the basin is no good, can't get out. Would I were a bird? Only one way got to go straight up, disappear, vanish in the air. Up a chimney, up, nah, that's backward. Up a chimney, down, or down a chimney, down. But not up a chimney, up, nor down a chimney, up. So that settled. Now, let me see, says the little man. Mighty few Arcadians know me well enough not to be fooled. Maybe so. Lake? Lake won't come. He'll be busy. There's Jimmy, but Jimmy's got a shocking bad memory for faces sometimes, just now, my face. I think maybe I could manage Jimmy. The Sheriff? That would be real awkward, I reckon. I'll just play the Sheriff isn't in the bunch and build my little bluff according to that pleasing fancy, for if he comes along it is all off with little Jeff. Now let me see, if Glenn's working that little old mine of his, why he'll lie himself black in the face, just for the principle of it. Mighty interesting talker Glenn is, and if no one's there, I'll be there. Not Jeff Bransford, he got away. I'll be, um, long, Toby long, working for Glenn, Toby long. I apprenticed my son to a minor, and the first thing he took was a new name. Far away on the side of Double Mountain he could even now see the white triangle of the tent at Glenn's mine, the Ophir, and the great dump spilling down the hillside. There was no smoke to be seen, Jeff made up his mind, there was no one at the mine, which was what he devoutly hoped, and further developed his gleeful hypothesis. Let's see now, Toby got to study this out. They most always leave all their kegs full of water when they go away, so they won't have to pack them up the first thing when they come back. If they did, I'm all right. If they didn't, I'm in a hell of a fix. They'll leave them full, though. Of course they did, unless the kegs would all dry up and fall down. He glanced over his shoulder. Them fellas are ten or twelve miles back, I reckon. They'll slow up soon as they see I'm headed off. I'll have time to fix things up, if only there's water in the kegs at the mine. He patted Alibi's head. Now, old man, do your damnedest, it is pretty tough on you, but your part will soon be over. Alibi had made a poor night of it, what with doubling and twisting in the foothills, the bitter water of a gyp spring, and the scanty grass of a cedar thicket. But he did his plucky best. On the legal other hand, as Jeff had prophesied, the dust-makers behind had slackened their gate when they perceived, by the dust of Escondido Trail, that their allies must cut the quarry off. So Alibi held his own with the pursuit. He came to the rising ground, leading to the sheer base of double mountain, then to the narrow gap where the mountain had fallen asunder in some age-old cataclysm. To the left, the dump of Ophir Mine hung on the hillside above the pass, and on the broad trails, zig-zagging up to it were burrow tracks, but no fresh tracks of men. The flaps of the white tent, on the dump, were tightly closed. There was no one at the mine. Jeff passed within the walls, through frowning gates of porphyry and nice, and urged Alibi up the canyon. It was half a mile to the spring. On the way he found three shaggy burrows grazing beside the road. He drove them into the small pen by the spring, and tossed his rope on the largest one. Then he unsaddled Alibi, tied him to the fence by the bridle rain, and searched his pockets for an old letter. This found he penciled a note and tied it to the saddle. It was brief. On route, four p.m., leaves water my horse when he cools off your little friend, Jeff Bransford. P.S., excuse haste. He made a plain trail of high-heeled boot tracks to the spring, where he drank deep. Fence beyond, through the sandy soil, to the nearest rocky ridge. Then careful that every step fell on a bare rock, he came circuitously back to the corral. Climbed the fence, made his way to the tied burrow, improvised a bridle of cunning half-hitches, slipped from the fence to the burrow's back. A burrow, by the way, is a donkey. Named the burrow anew as Balaam, and went back down the canyon at the best pace of which the belabored and astonished Balaam was capable. As Jeff had hoped, the two other burrows, or the other two burrows, to be precise, followed sociably, braying remonstrance. Without the mouth of the canyon, Jeff rode up the steep trail to the mine. Also to the great disgust of his mount. But he must not walk. It would leave boot tracks. For the same reason, after freeing Balaam, his first action was to pull off the tell-tale boots and replace them with the smallest pair of hob-nailed minor shoes in the tent. With these he carefully obliterated the few boot tracks at the tent door. The water kegs were full, Jeff swore his joyful gratitude, and turned his eye to the plain. The pursuing dust was still far away, seven miles he estimated, or possibly eight. The three burrows nibbled on the bushes below the dump, plainly intending to stay round camp with an eye for possible tips. Jeff gave his whole-hearted attention to the Misé en Seine. Never did a stage manager toil so hard, so faithfully, so effectively as this one, or with so great a need. He took stock of the available stage properties, beginning with a careful inventory of the grub chest. To betray ignorance of its possibilities or deficiencies would be fatal. Following a narrow trail round a little shoulder of hill, he found the powder magazine. Taking three sticks of dynamite, with fuse and caps, he searched the tent for the candle-box, lit a candle, and went into the tunnel with a brisk trot. If this was a case of fight now, I'd have some pretty fair weapon here for close quarters, said Jeff. But the way I'm fixed, I can't. No fighting goes, unless lake comes. In the tunnel his luck held good. He found a number of good-sized chunks of rock stacked along the wall near the breast, evidently reserved for the ore pile at a more convenient season. Beneath three of the largest of these rocks he carefully adjusted the three sticks of giant powder, properly capped and fused, lit the fuses, and retreated to the safety of the dump. Three muffled detonations followed at short intervals. Having thus announced the presence of mining operations, he built a fire on the kitchen side of the dump to further advertise a mind conscious of its own rectitude. The pleasant shadow of the hills was cool about him. The flame rose clear and bright in the windless air to be seen from far away. He looked at the location papers in the monument by the ore stack, simultaneously, by way of economizing time, emptying a can of salmon. This was partly for the added vericillinitude of the empty tin, partly because he was ravenously hungry. You may guess how he emptied the tin. The mine had changed owners since Jeff's knowledge of it, it was no longer Gwyn's sole property. The noticed bore the signatures of J. Gwyn, C. W. Sanders, and Walter Fleck. Jeff grinned and his eye brightened. He knew Fleck only slightly, but Fleck's reputation among the cowmen was good, that is to say, as you would see it, very bad. Pappy Sanders, postmaster and storekeeper of Escondido, was an old and sorely tried friend of Jeff's. If Pappy had grub-staped the outfit, a far away plan began to shape vaguely in his fertile brain. He took the little turquoise horse from his pocket and laded in the till of the violated trunk. Were you told about the violated trunk? Never mind. He had done any amount of other things of which you had not been told, for it was his task in the brief time allotted to him to master all the innumerable details needful for an intelligent reading of his part. He must make no blunders. He toiled like two men, each swifter and more savagely efficient than himself. He upset the prim old he-made-in-esh order of that carefully packed spick-and-span camp. He rumbled the beds, strewed old clothes, books, candles, specimens, pipes, and cigarette papers with lavish hand, made untidy sprawling heaps of tin plates, knives, forks, and spoons, spilled candle-grease and tobacco on the scoured table, and generally gave things a cozy and habitable appearance. He gave a hundred deft touches here and there. He spread an open book, face downward on the table. It was Alice in Wonderland, and he opened it at the mock turtle. Meanwhile, an unoccupied eye snatched titles from a shelf of books against possible question. He penned a short note to himself. Mr. Toby Long, in Gwynne's handwriting, folded the note to creases, twisted it to a spill, lit it, burned a corner of it, pinched it out, and threw it under the table. And while doing these and other things, he somehow managed to shed every article of Jeff Bransford's clothing and to put on the work-stained garments of a minor. The perspiration on his face was no stage makeup, but good, honest sweat. He rubbed stone dust and sand on his sweaty arms and into his sweaty hair. He rubbed most of it from his hair and into the two-day stubble on his face, simultaneously fishing razor and mug from the trunk, leaving them in evidence on the table. He worked stone dust into his ears, behind his ears. He grimed it on forehead and neck. And dropped a little into his shoes, which all this while had been performing independent miracles to make the camp look comfortable. He threw on a dingy cap, thrust in the cap a minor's candlestick, with a lighted candle, that it might properly drip upon him while he arranged further details, and so faced the world as Toby Long, a stooped and overworked man. Mr. Toby Long, working with feverish haste, dug a small cave halfway down the steep side of the dump, farthest from the road, and buried therein a tightly-rolled bundle containing every article appertaining to the defunct Bransford, with the single exception of the little eopus, a pocket knife, which a minor must have to cut powder and fuse, having been found in the trunk, but time also the little turquoise horse was transferred to Mr. Long's pocket to bring him luck in his new career. A poor thing compared with a cowlman's keen blade, but better for Mr. Long's purpose as smelling strongly of dynamite. Then Mr. Long, Toby, hid the grave by sliding and shoveling broken rock down the dump upon it. Next he threw into a wheelbarrow, drills, spoon, a tamping stick, gads, drill hammer, rock hammer, canteen, shovel, and pick, taking care, even in his haste, to select a properly matched set of drills, and trundled the barrow up the drift at a pace which would give a miner's union the rabies. At the breast he unshipped his cargo in ripe miner's fashion, the drills in a graduated stepladder row along the wall, loaded the barrow with broken ore, a bit of charred fuse showing at the top, and wheeled it out at the same unprofessional gate, leaving it on the dump just above the spot where his late sub-hocrel rites had freshened the appearance of the sun-beaten dump. He next performed his ablutions in an amateurish and perfunctory fashion, scrupulously observing a well-defined water line. There, said Mr. Long, a near made a break that time. He went back to the barrow and trundled it assiduously to the tunnel's mouth, and back, several times, carefully never in quite the same place, finally leaving it not above the sub-hocrel's boil, but near the ore-stack as befitted its valuable contents. Gotta think of everything. One long break'll fix me good, said Mr. Long. He felt his neck delicately, as if he detected some foreign presence there. In the tunnel now there's only the one place where the wheel can go, so it don't matter so much in there. The fire, having now burned down to proper coals, Mr. Long set about supper. With the corner of his eye on the lookout for the pursuers of the late Bransford, he set the coffee-pot by the fire. They were now in the edge of the tar-brush. There were only two of them. He put on a pot of potatoes in their jackets. He could see them plainly, diminutive black horsemen twinkling through the brush. He sliced bacon into a frying-pan and put it aside to await his queue. He disposed other cooking-ware in lifelike attitudes near the fire. They were in the long shadow of Double Mountain. Their horses were jaded, they rode slowly. He dropped the sourdough jar, and placed the broken pieces where they would be inconspicuously visible. Having thus a perfectly obvious excuse for not having sourdough bread, which requires thirty-six hours of running start for preliminary rising, Jeff, Mr. Toby Long, mixed up a just-as-good baking-powder substitute. They rode like young men. They rode like young men, not to the saddle-born, and Toby permitted himself a chuckle. By hooky I've got an even chance for my little bluff. He shook his head reprovingly at himself for this last admission. With every minute he looked more like Toby Long than ever, if only there had been any Toby Long to look like. His mind ran upon nuggets, pockets, plasters, faults, true Fisher veins, the cyanide process, concentrates, chlorides, sulfides, assays, leases, and bonds. His face took on the strained wistfulness which marks the confirmed prospector. He was Toby Long. The bell rang. End of Chapter 11