Bransford of Rainbow Range

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 to face 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 in, 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 Turnbull—you, Clarke—and you.... Bassett, 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 ascendency 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. A buzz 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 mill-master. Clarke was editor of the Arcadian Day. Clarke had been early to the storm-center; yet, of all the investigators, Clarke alone was not more or less disheveled. He was faultlessly appareled—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 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 Mephistophelian twist; he was becomingly arrayed in slippers, pajamas and a pink bathrobe, girdled at the waist with a most unhermitlike cord, having gone early and surly to bed. In this improvised committee he fitly represented Society: while the sheriff represented society at large and, ex officio, 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.

“Will the watchman die, Alec, d’you think?” whispered 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 coin to a golden heap. Behind, some golden rouleaus were intact: others tottered precariously, as you have perhaps seen beautiful tall stacks of colored counters do. 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 twenty-five thousand, I think. Bassett will know. And I don’t know how much gold is gone. Look round and see if they left anything incriminating, sheriff, anything that we can trace them by.”

“He heard poor old Lars coming,” 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 have 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 every one 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. “Gun was held so close it burnt his shirt. Awful hole. Don’t believe the old chap’ll 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.”

“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. Hope some one hangs for this!” said Clarke. “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 Porsena. 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 round the town. If we only had something to go on—some clue! Later we’ll look through this town with a finetooth 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 stave 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, Clarke, 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 shortly, interrupting this stately financial discourse. “Then we shall do nicely.... Let’s see—to-morrow’s payday. You fellows”—he turned 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.”

“No need to do that,” said Alec. “I’ll have the railroad checks drawn on St. Louis. The storekeepers’ll cash ’em. If necessary I’ll wire for authority to let Turnbull pay off the millhands with railroad checks. It’s just taking money from one pocket to put it 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 pen into an inkwell and fell to work.

Acting upon this hint, the sheriff took a desk. “Wish Phillips was here—my deputy,” he sighed. “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 reach 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, were you not?” asked Billy amiably. “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 ’em 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 drawl. “Were you a good man before you became a banker?”

“Look here! What’s this?” The interruption came from Clarke. He pounced down between two fragments of the safe door and brought up an object which he held to the light.

At the startled tones, Lake spun round in his 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 noseguard,” said Billy. Billy was a college man and had worn a nosepiece himself. He frowned unconsciously, remembering his successful rival of the masquerade.

“You wear it to protect your nose and teeth when playing football,” explained Billy. “Keeps you from swearing, too. You hold this piece between your teeth; the other part goes over your nose, up between your eyes and fastens with this band around your forehead.”

“Why! Why!” gasped Clarke, “there was a man at the masquerade togged 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 Lake scoffingly. “Oh, nonsense! Some young fellow 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 Buttinski, 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 Ellinor had not reappeared until the midnight unmasking, and he therefore acquitted her companion of this particular crime, entirely without prejudice to Buttinski’s felonious instincts in general. For the watchman had been shot before midnight. Billy made a tentative mental decision that this famous noseguard had been brought to the bank later and left there purposely; and 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 Clarke, holding the spotlight tenaciously. “That don’t go! This thing was on top of one of those pieces of the safe!”

“That puts a different light on the case, gentlemen,” said Lake. “Luck is with us; and——”

“And, while I think of it,” said Clarke, making the most of his 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 some one to hunt for, and then committed the robbery and went back in another costume,” suggested Clarke, pleased and not a little surprised at his own ingenuity. “In that case, he would have left this rubber thing here of design.”

“H’m!” 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 some one to guard the bank. Meantime I’ll call the cashier in and find out exactly how much money we’re short. Send Bassett in, will you, Billy? You stay at the door and keep that mob out.”

CHAPTER VIII

ARCADES AMBO

“What means this, my lord?”
“Marry, this is miching mallecho; it means mischief.”

—Hamlet.

“We are here to do what service we may, for honor and not for hire.”—Robert Louis Stevenson.

“Now ... how did Buttinski’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 Buttinski 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—why?... Denmark’s all putrefied!”

The low sun cleared the housetops. The level rays fell along the window-sill; 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.

“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.”

“Oh, doc said he had one chance in ten thousand; 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 keep your head closed until you see which way the cat jumps? Can you keep it to yourself?”

“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 the glass.

“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 ’a’ seen all that myself after a little if you hadn’t ’a’ 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 am not going to tell even you!”

“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.”

“There is something not just right about the man Lake. His mind is too ballbearing altogether. He herds those chumps in there round like so many sheep. He used ’em to make discoveries with and then showed ’em how to force ’em 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 breeching like a balky horse. It’s Lake’s bank, and the bank’s got burglar insurance. Got that? If he gets the money and the insurance, too—see? And I happen to know he has been bucking the market. I dropped a roll with him myself. Then there’s r-r-revenge!—as they say on the stage—and something else beside. Has Lake any bitter enemies?”

“Well, I never heard of your Mr. Bransford; but he’s in town all right, all right! You’ll see! Lake’s got a case cooked up that’ll hang some one higher than Haman; and I’ll bet the first six years of my life against a Doctor Cook lecture ticket that the first letter of some one’s name is Jeff Bransford.”

“What sort of a man is this Bransford? Any good? Besides being an enemy of Lake’s, I mean?”

“Mr. Bransford is one whom we all delight to humor,” announced the deputy, after some reflection.

“We-ll—yes!” he said. “He limps a little in 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 Pecos since that, too, and poured some several barrels of water out o’ 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,” rejoined 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, specially South Rainbow; but his particular side partners is all away just now; leastways, all but one.”

“And tell him to come break Jeff out o’ jail?” said he. “That don’t seem hardly right, considerin’. You write to him—Johnny Dines, Morningside. You might wire up to Cloudland and have it forwarded from there. I’ll pay.”

“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 to show 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.”

“The something else that you wouldn’t tell me about,” Jimmy explained. “Is she blonde or brunette?”

CHAPTER IX

TAKEN

“Lord Huntley then he did speak out—
O, fair mot fa’ his body!—
‘I here will fight doublet alane
Or ony thing ails Geordie!

“‘Whom has he robbed? What has he stole?
Or has he killed ony?
Or what’s the crime that he has done
His foes they are so mony?’”

—Old Ballad.

Hue and cry, 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-roan horse in the yard of Rosalio Marquez, better known, by reason of his profession, as Monte.

Straightway the banker 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 sallyport.

“It may be worth looking into,” Lake advised the sheriff. “Better send some one to reconnoiter—some one 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-roan 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.

Bicycle-back, he accompanied the sheriff beyond the outworks to the Mexican quarter. Near the place indicated by the banker Billy left his wheel and strolled casually round the block. He saw the red-roan steed and noted the Double Rainbow branded on his thigh.

Monte was leaning in the adobe doorway, rolling a cigarette. Billy knew him, in a business way.

“I like his looks,” said Billy. “Is your friend here? Or, if he’s downtown, what’s his name? I’d like to buy that horse.”

“He ees weetheen, but he ees not apparent. He ees dormiendo—ah—yais—esleepin’. He was las’ night to the baile mascarada.”

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 carelessly: “Let’s see, Bransford went as a sailor, didn’t he? Un marinero?”

“Oh, no; he was atir-re’ lak one—que cosa?—what you call thees theeng?—un balon para jugar con los pies? Ah! si, si!—one feetball! Myself I come soon back. I have no beesness. The bes’ people ees all for the dance,” said Monte, with hand turned up and shrugging shoulder. “So, media noche—twelve of the clock, I am here back. I fin’ here the hor-rse of my frien’, and one carta—letter—that I am not to lock the door; porque he may come to esleep. So I am mek to r-repose myself. Later I am ar-rouse when my frien’ am to r-retir-re heemself. Ah, que hombre! I am yet to esmile to see heem in thees so r-redeeculous vestidos! He ees ver’ gay. Ah! que Jeff! Een all ways thees ees a man ver’ sufficiente, cour-rageous, es-trong, formidabble! Yet he ees keep the disposicion, the hear-rt, of a seemple leetle chil’—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 Buttinski. Yet he could establish no alibi by Monte.

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 rôle of deus ex machina; perhaps a thought of friendly gratitude was not lacking. Then, too, 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 emprise; that boy’s love is best and truest of all; that 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.

“Well, I want to see him anyway!” The sheriff laid a brusk hand on the gatelatch.

Monte waved his cigarette airily, 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 caliber, the sheriff noted. As it was pointed directly at his nose he was favorably situated to observe—looking along the barrel—that the hammer stood at full cock.

“Per-rhaps you have some papers for heem?” suggested Monte, with gentle and delicate deference. He still leaned against the doorjamb. “But eef not eet ees bes’ that you do not enter thees my leetle house to distur-rb my gues’. That would be to commeet a r-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.

“An’ before? Porque, the sheriff he has been. To mek an arres’ of you, I t’eenk.”

“Me?” said Jeff, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I haven’t done anything that I can remember now!”

“Sure? No small leetle cr-rime? Not las’ night? Me, I jus’ got up. I have not hear’.”

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 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.

“First-class,” said the sheriff cordially. “Won’t your friend come too?”

“Ah, señor, you eshame me that I am not so hospitabble, ees eet not?” purred Monte, as he followed Jeff into the tonneau.

“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; and, 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, señor!” said Monte. He handed over a key. “La casa es suyo!”

“Thank you,” said the sheriff, with unmoved gravity. “Anything of yours you want ’em to bring, Bransford?”

“Why, no,” said Jeff cheerfully. “I’ve got nothing there but my saddle, my gun and an old football suit that belongs to ’Gene 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 lef’ there my gun that I keep to protec’ my leetle house,” observed Monte. “Tell some one to keep eet for me. I am much attach’ to that gun.”

“Why, yes, I have seen that gun, I think,” said the sheriff. “They’ll look out for it. All right, Billy!”

“Oh—you were speaking about Monte being an accessory. I didn’t get in till ’way late last night, and I’ve been asleep all day,” said Jeff apologetically. “Might I ask before or after exactly what fact Monte was an accessory?”

The sheriff was not a patient man and he had borne much; also, he liked Lars Porsena. Perfection, even in trifles, is rare and wins affection. He turned on Jeff, with an angry growl.

The sheriff continued, ignoring and, indeed, only half sensing the purport of Jeff’s comment:

“That’s too bad,” said Jeff. He was, if possible, more cheerful than ever.

The sheriff glared at him. Billy, from the front seat, threw a word of explanation over his shoulder. “It’s not Lake. The watchman.”

“Oh, old Lars Porsena? 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’ll 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. So he said guardedly:

“Buck 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 mustache still kept more than a hint of Mephistopheles. Jeff slowly surveyed Billy’s natty attire, with a lingering and insulting interest for such evidences of prosperity as silken hosiery and a rather fervid scarfpin. At last his eye met Billy’s, and Billy was blushing.

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 Monte. 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.”

“Must be a fine girl!” murmured Jimmy absently. “Well, what are you going to do? It looks pretty plain.”

“It looks plain to us—but we haven’t got a single tangible thing against Lake yet. We’d 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 Monte’s house. All 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 dare say Buttinski—Mr. Bransford—is eminently 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, Clarke, Turnbull, 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?”

CHAPTER X

THE ALIBI

“The executioner’s argument was, that you couldn’t cut off a head unless there was a body to cut it off from; that he had never had to do such a thing before, and he 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 bade fair to be Arcadia’s first cause célèbre.

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 the sometime 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; Monte, lolling within the rail of the witness-box, smiled across at him. Still, he would have felt better for another friendly face or two, he thought—say, John Wesley Pringle’s.

Jeff looked from the open window. Cottonwoods, well watered, give 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 Ellinor, 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 a muse 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:

“Play your hand close to your bosom, old-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 Blücher’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.

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 waived 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 nosepiece, 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 Clarke would testify that the nosepiece 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 noseguard since he first found it in his way; he began to see how tightly the net was drawn round 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 Sisera, 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 Honor, 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 entryway at the head of the stairs huddled a group of shrinking girls. Before them, one foot upon the threshold, stood Ellinor Hoffman. She shook off a detaining hand and stepped into the room, head erect, proud, pale. Across the sea of curious faces her eyes met the prisoner’s. 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—saw, too, the quick pulsebeat at his throat.

The color flooded back to Ellinor’s face. Men nearest the door were swift to bring chairs. The prosecutor resumed his interrupted speech—his voice was deep, hard, vibrant.

“Your Honor, the counts against this man are fairly damning! We will prove that he was shaved in a barber shop 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—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 nosepiece 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.”

“We will prove this, Your Honor, by a most unwilling witness—Rosalio Marquez”—Monte 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 wakened by the entrance of the prisoner at the bar, clad in a football suit, but wearing no nosepiece 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 nosepiece there!

“It is true, Your Honor, 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 disreputable friend, Rosalio Marquez—a common gambler! Doubtless, Your Honor, 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 defense, which he had so fondly deemed invincible!”

All eyes, including the orator’s, 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 toward the door. Blank unrecognition was in his eyes as they swept past Ellinor, but he shook his head once more, very slightly.

There was a sense of mystery in the air—a buzz and burr of whispers; a rustle of moving feet. The audience noticeably relaxed its implacable attitude toward the accused, eyed him with a different interest, seemed to feel for the first time that, after all, he was accused merely, and that his defense had not yet been heard. The prosecutor felt this subtle change; it lamed his periods.

“It is true, Your Honor, that no eye save God’s 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-gods gone; she shone at him—proud, glowing, triumphant!

A hush fell upon the thrilled room. Jeff was on his feet, his hand held out to stay her; his eyes spoke to hers. She stopped as at a command. Scarcely 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 imaginings 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.

“Your Honor, I have a perfectly good line of defense; 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 intonation, edged the words. The courtroom thrilled again at the unspoken thought: “An 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 Honor, is precisely what I propose to do!”

His Honor 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 defense. Your unsupported word will count for nothing. You cannot prove an alibi alone.”

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 hullabaloo, a mass of struggling men at cross purposes. Gun in hand, the sheriff, stumbling over some one’s foot—Monte’s—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. He afterward showed with pride where each ball had struck in a scant six-inch space. Vainly 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 Ellinor, he found himself at Jimmy’s elbow.