The Benevolent Liar/Chapter 9
CHAPTER IX.
For a moment the mine owner appeared dumfounded. His level eyes, widely opened, fixed themselves on the younger man's face quite as if questioning his sanity, and marked the suppressed, quivering lips, the tightly shut, firm jaw, and the dilating, finely curved nostrils. Tom's mental stress was so palpable that it softened the contempt and wrath that for an instant flamed in Barnes' mind. An inkling of the bravery and sacrifice required for the confession came to him, checked him, and determined him to withhold judgment until he knew more.
“So,” he said slowly, “you are the man who stuck up that gold wagon, eh?”
Tom could not speak, but dumbly nodded assent, and his eyes dropped their direction and fixed themselves on the ground; but not before Barnes had noted the swift, despairing look of pain in them.
“Well, Tom, that sounds pretty bad to me,” he said. “Now there's only one thing to do. Suppose we sit down here while you tell me all about it.”
He set the example by walking over to a big, flat-topped bowlder, and Tom followed after. The mine owner, observing him, fathomed his inability to speak, and gave rein to his generous liking for the young man, and his own natural kindness.
“Don't be afraid to tell the truth, Tom,” he said. “You are talking to a friend who was also the friend of your father. Just turn loose!”
This unexpected sympathy threatened for a moment to be Tom's undoing, and his eyes grew suspiciously moist. His first sentence came with difficulty, and then, resolved to plead his case on truth alone, he spoke freely and without reservation. His story was that which he had told Price, save that now he added thereto an overwhelming gratitude for all that the prospector had done for him. He did not even conceal his own morbid but conquered depression, nor his objections to visiting the Barnes' home while an uncleared crime hung over him.
“Yes,” the mine owner declared, “I see how you felt about it. It does credit to your sense of decency. Your attitude is quite probably the one I should have had under similar circumstances.”
Tom felt that strange sense of callowness and youth again, but had scant time to think, for now the mine owner flashed shrewd and searching questions from his keen, analytical brain that required all Tom's bravery to answer. He was not conscious of trying to make either appeal or defense in his replies, but subconsciously was fighting as hard as he had ever fought for anything in his life for Barnes' esteem, or at least a shred thereof, and his very candor saved him. There came a time when the mine owner, who had watched him intently throughout the conversation, thoughtfully looked away at the distant mountaintops and sat silently for a long time.
“I have been very miserable, sir,” Tom said, almost as if speaking to himself. “I thought I should go and give myself up. Confess! Accept the punishment I had earned. But Josh wouldn't let me.”
“And he gave you the right advice!” said Barnes, with unexpected emphasis. “Cash Vance would have shown you no mercy. He is vindictive, unspeakably dishonest, but, withal, a fearless man. He has the power of courage. Do you know that most men are afraid of him? That he never scruples at anything to gain his objects?”
“I'm afraid I do,” said Tom bitterly.
“He has money—lots of it. Nobody knows how much. And he doesn't quibble over using it. And he has reasons for hating you and wishing to harm you. There is no hatred in the world like that a bad man bestows on one he has deliberately wronged, and there isn't the slightest doubt, also, that Vance robbed your father. You, as Bill Rogers' only son, have fallen heir to that hatred.” He paused and laughed harshly. “What I can't understand is, how it happens that Josh hasn't killed him long before this. It's like him. You don't know Josh Price. He has certainly tamed down a lot since the days when we were close friends. He is actually becoming sensible, peaceful, and law-abiding. No—Josh was right, I think. Once you confessed, it would have been the end. It would have played into Vance's hand. He would have forced it uncompromisingly and with all his accustomed vigor. He would have used all his influence to have you hanged, then applied for a prison permit to witness your execution, to make certain of your demise, and he would have smoked a cigarette and grinned when the drop fell. I tell you, Tom, there are mighty few men courageous enough to court trouble with Cash Vance. I keep clear of him as I would of a blind rattlesnake in dog days. The only man I know that takes any chances with him—outside of Josh, of course—is that lying thug, Karluk Pete, who is brave with a wolf? s bravery, and as cunning.”
He got to his feet as if recalling the immediate duties of their quest, and Tom was as one in a great hazard, and waiting apprehensively for some further indication as to how his confession had been received. The mine owner, rousing himself from meditation, turned toward him.
“Well, Tom,” he said, “you keep on following Josh Price's injunctions. Say nothing to any one else about—about that break you made. There's no more piffing saying quoted than the one which says: 'What's done can't be undone.' Because nearly always it can. We'll see. Now let's get busy.”
Tom was grateful for his support, yet felt that he had forever cut himself off from continuation of his delightful friendship with the mine owner's daughter, and, reflecting over it, he admitted that Barnes was justified in an interdiction. Tom felt that he was still unclean.
They returned to the cabin, where Edith had a breakfast waiting for them, but throughout the meal Tom did no more than answer her questions. They left the doctor still asleep, and returned to make an effort to follow the trail of the would-be murderer. Tom was deathly tired before noon, but the mine owner traveled as if fatigue were an unknown thing and he but a seasoned machine of steel. The only point they succeeded in establishing, and that a useless one, was that after shooting the prospector his assailant had climbed directly up a steep hill to a crest that extended for miles and was entirely destitute of vegetation. Here it was completely lost; and even Barnes, indefatigable and patient as a hound on a scent, had to confess himself beaten.
“It's no use,” he said. “We will return to the cabin, get a bite to eat, and decide what next to do.”
As they approached it they saw Edith Barnes emerge and look up the trail anxiously, with her hand shading her eyes from the glare of the sun. When she saw them she beckoned, and they hastened to her side.
“The doctor is in there,” she said quickly, “and he thinks that Mr. Price is regaining consciousness.”
They tiptoed into the room just as the prospector slowly opened his eyes. For an instant they were filmed and dazed, and then they gradually resumed their brightness.
“Hello!” he said weakly, and would have tried to lift himself on his elbow had not the surgeon gently restrained him.
“How did—how did I get here? What's the matter with me, anyhow?” he asked, and added, with a feeble grin: “Looks like a party.”
“Some one tried to snuff you out on the trail last night. Tom found and brought you here this morning,” the mine owner said.
A puzzled look came into the prospector's eyes, and then he said, with signs of excitement: “Tommy, Tommy! Look in the pocket of my shirt and see if you find a big dockyment there—an affidavit it is, made by Pete.”
The mine owner gave a low whistle, and Tom picked up the shirt.
“No,” he announced, “there is no paper of any kind here, and I am certain there was not when I found you.”
“Well,” said the prospector wearily, “Karluk Pete told Specimen Jones yesterday he'd have to have that paper back, and said he'd get it. Specimen warned me, but—Pete's got his paper, all right.”
He smiled a wry smile and closed his eyes as if exhausted, and the surgeon gestured to them to leave the room. They hovered in the doorway for an instant, and the surgeon also tiptoed out.
“Good!” he said, with a look of professional satisfaction on his face. “Splendid! He's as tough as a hickory. Marvelous what vitality some of these old-timers have. He has gone to sleep, and must not be disturbed. It will do more good than medicine.”
The mine owner stood scowling thoughtfully, but, when the surgeon started for his horse, followed and beckoned to Tom.
“This is a council of war,” he said. “Now, what strikes you as the best plan? Shall we go ahead and get out a warrant for Pete's arrest, on what evidence we have, or”
“I shouldn't,” said the surgeon. “We have nothing very tangible.”
Barnes told of finding the footprints, but Tom noted that he made no mention of the slate tablet. The surgeon again shook his head.
“Why not get a tab on what sized boot Pete wears before you shout?” he asked. “Perhaps it wouldn't fit, and then, in the meantime, you'd have given the alarm to the actual shooter and also probably given him ample time to get away.”
“That does sound reasonable,” said Barnes thoughtfully. “What do you think, Tom?”
“That seems the reasonable course to me,” Tom replied; “but—I don't feel competent to advise, under the circumstances.””
Barnes caught the significance of the conclusion.
“You are even more capable of advising than I am,” he retorted. “But I think I'll saddle my horse and go in with the doctor. I can do a little scouting without attracting any one's attention or suspicion, I think. And you, Tom, in the meantime, had better let Edith get some sleep. The doctor and I will be back some time this evening, and we will then arrange for a night shift.”
The doctor was permitted to take the lead, and just before the mine owner started after him he bent down from his saddle to Tom and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Don't brood over things, boy,” he said, in a kindly tone. “It's bad enough, Heaven knows. But I'm glad you told me, because—well, because I'm a pretty fair sort of a friend myself.”
He had straightened in his seat, touched his horse with the spur, and was galloping away before Tom could speak. He stood and watched the broad shoulders swinging easily to the horse's stride, but Barnes never looked back.
“Why, Tom, what has happened?” Edith Barnes asked when, a few minutes later, he appeared in the kitchen door. “You look positively happy about something.”
“I am,” he said; then added, with a sense of guilty evasion: “Happy because the doctor thinks Josh will recover. Aren't you?”
“Of course I am,” she said. “He is very wonderful to me, you know, and my father seems to have a very warm affection for him. Poor Mr. Price! What an outrage!”
Tom was compelled to argue with her and insist upon her taking a rest, for she with almost equal insistence thought he required it more; but in the end she surrendered, and he made her a bed by spreading blankets outside in the shade of the heavy trees, where she went gratefully, and was soon fast asleep. Tom watched through the long afternoon beside his protector's bunk, but Josh slept as heavily as a tired child.
The sun had set, and he was still keeping his solicitous watch, when he heard voices and the clattering of hoofs over the trail. He went to the door and looked out. Edith, disturbed, was sitting up and sleepily rearranging her disordered hair, while riding toward him came three men whom he soon identified as the mine owner, the surgeon, and Specimen Jones. They dismounted, and the surgeon asked concerning his patient and then went into the cabin.
“Well, Tom,” said Barnes, in a voice heavy with weariness, “I had quite a day of it. I thought it over on the way in and went up and enlisted Specimen, who can be depended upon through thick and thin. We learned, first of all, that Karluk Pete paid his room rent in full yesterday at noon, and said he was leaving. Next, that he had not been seen since late yesterday afternoon, but that is not all. Specimen, you tell him the rest, while I give these supplies I brought to Edith.”
“Frank told me about the foot track,” Specimen said, “and I went to the place where Pete roomed and told 'em he had promised me a pair of old shoes that he had left there. It was a good guess, all right, and the reason I made a stab that way was that when he talked to me yesterday he was pretty well togged out with new duds. I was dead sure that if he had money enough to get glad rags he'd go the whole hog and get new shoes at the same time. Well, sure enough, the woman goes out back to a trash heap where Pete's room had been cleaned out, and fishes up an old pair of shoes. 'You're dead positive these is the ones Pete left?' I asks, and she says: 'Yes.' I thanked her and took 'em over in a piece of paper to Frank's house, and we took measurements of the soles. Tom, sure as shootin', the tracks you found up there where Josh was sniped weren't made by Karluk Pete, and we've got to look farther to find our man.”