WHEN Horace Moley left the court house after posting bond, folks noticed the change which had come over him. He no longer walked erect, stepping briskly along the street; his shoulders sagged, his lean face was haggard, and he shuffled his feet as though too weary to raise them.
“Jest like a wolf slinkin’,” someone remarked.
At the Palace he turned mechanically towards the doorway for his customary Scotch and soda. As the doors parted, he halted. Steve was seated at a table, a bottle before him, hand clutched tightly about a glass, eyes fixed on the blank wall of the saloon.
Horace backed away, his eyes pain-stricken. For a moment he stood outside the Palace, hesitant, a bit bewildered. So crushing had been his disappointment, so staggering the wreck of his dreams, that he was no longer complete master of himself. Somewhere a thread had snapped. At last he stepped into the road and shuffled through the dust to his office. The wolf, mortally wounded, had slunk to his lair.
Inside the room, he seated himself at his desk and began mechanically to sort the contents of the drawers. He uncovered a double-barrelled Derringer and for a moment examined it curiously. For years it had lain there loaded and untouched. He placed it on the top of the desk and covered it with a paper.
A step sounded in the outer room and somebody tried the door. The thought that this was Barry Weston come to taunt him struck the lawyer, and his eyes flamed with their old fire. He placed his hand on the revolver, removed it, saw that the weapon was entirely covered, then arose and went to the door.
It was Steve who entered, and Steve was very drunk. For a moment he stood leering at his father, swaying a bit on his feet, his bloodshot eyes wild.
“Stevie!” faltered Horace, and backed away from him.
Steve swept off his hat and made a bow which nearly proved his undoing.
“Hail to king!” he sneered. “Oil king; mighty Mogul of universe! Hell of a mess you’ve made of things, ain’t you?”
Horace had backed against the desk. “Stevie!” he cried again. “It wasn’t my fault. I meant for the best. I wanted you to be rich, to have things, to—to—”
Steve laughed raspingly. “Yeah, you did! You were out to feather your own nest, you clanged ol’ lobo you! Used ever’body you could get your han’s on, me included. Oil! Oil! You clanged fool, you oughta knowed Slater ’d never sell a whole Basin of oil for five thousand bucks.”
“But that wasn’t all he was to have,” protested Moley desperately. “I promised him a share—fifty-fifty! You remember, Stevie?”
“Sure; I remem’er. Promised him half, and then had him killed so’s you wouldn’t have to keep your promise. Great li’l promiser, you are. Been us in’ me like the res’ of ’em. Puppets; tha’s what you called ’em. Jump when you pull string. Took care to be covered up, didn’t you? With your phoney bank and your rustlin’ and your killin’. All covered up; nobody can prove a thing. But where do puppets come in, huh? Sam and Tug and Frothin’ham dead. Ace in jail. Bascomb lyin’ head off to save hisself. And how about me? Know what you’ve let me in for? I’ll tell you. They’ll work on Ace and make him tell about that Clement Dawn frame-up. I’ll be blamed. Right now they got Hop Finch and Pug Parsons down at sheriff’s office puttin’ screws to ’em. They’ll squeal about Clay Dawn. I’m blamed again. Wes’ on seen me rustlin’ them Cinch buckle breeders. Me! Me! I’m one to get it in the neck, not you. Dang your measly soul, I oughta choke life outa you!”
He lurched forward again, and Horace, desperately afraid, unable to retreat farther, grappled with him. His frantic grip infuriated the drunken man. Like one become suddenly insane, Steve twisted and tore and struck, not heeding the feeble cries of his father. Cursing in drunken frenzy, he pressed the frail lawyer back on the desk. Horace Maley’s hand fell on the paper which covered the Derringer; he felt its hard shape beneath his fingers, brushed the paper aside and seized the weapon.
Steve uttered a bellow of rage. “Pull a gun on me, will you!” he cried, and, jerking Horace from the desk, hugged him to him. Neither heeded the man who had come in the front door and now stood at the entrance to the office watching. Back and forth across the floor they struggled, shuffling, panting, upsetting chairs. Steve had gone berserk; Horace fought for life itself. And suddenly there came the muffled sound of a shot, and Steve released his hold with a throaty gasp. For a moment he stood breast to breast with his father while a little wisp of smoked eddied ceilingward; then he collapsed like a wet rag, leaving the lawyer with the gun in his hand looking down at him with horror-stricken eyes.
“Stevie!” cried Horace, and there was that in the cry which tore at Barry Weston’s heart strings. “Stevie! My boy! Oh, what have I done?”
He dropped to his knees and gathered his son in his arms. “Stevie!” he cried brokenly, the tears streaming down his face. “Stevie, answer me! I didn’t meant to do it! I swear I didn’t!”
Through the outer doorway came several men, Matt Billings in the lead. He ran past Barry, stopped at the sight which greeted his eyes. Horace was still supporting Steve, his tears falling on the dead face.
Slowly Matt stopped and picked up the gun. He felt the warm barrel, sniffed the fumes which issued from the weapon.
“So it’s murder this time,” he said quietly. “And your own son.”
The lawyer raised his grief-stricken face and looked dumbly about him. For an instant he appeared on the verge of speaking, then he lowered his head and sobbed. He had not seen Barry; perhaps it occurred to him then that he, who had always been careful to eliminate witnesses to his acts, had at last jeopardized his life for the need of one.
Certainly the thought struck Barry with all its ironical force. If he remained silent, Maley must hang. Certainly the man deserved hanging; but that heartbroken cry, the agony in Maley’s eyes, had touched him to the quick.
He stepped forward. “An accident, Matt. I saw it all. Steve came in drunk and started to quarrel. He tried to choke his father, and Horace grabbed the gun from the desk. It was fired while they were strugglin’. He didn’t mean to do it.”
Somebody called a doctor, and Horace was persuaded to leave the body. He seemed to know that there was no hope, and sat with his head bowed in his hands while the brief examination was made.
“Dead,” pronounced the doctor quietly. “I’ll gather a jury and hold the inquest right here.”
Horace Maley refused to testify; but when Barry uttered the words which exonerated him, he looked at West on long and hard. When it was over he called Barry to him.
“I can’t honestly thank you for saving a worthless life,” he said dully. “I don’t want to live. Everything I strove and worked for is gone; there is nothing now but emptiness. You know why I wanted the Basin. I suppose you have guessed that Frothingham and his bank were established to wreck the ranchers and put the property in my hands.”
“Yes. Frothingham told me when he was dying. But I had no witnesses and he was too far gone to sign a confession. Tug murdered him for his money, and we chased Tug into the quicksand. He went down, and the money with him. Had we recovered it we intended to use it to save the Basin ranches.”
Moley nodded listlessly. “You’re smart, Weston. I feared you from the start. And you’re a man. Now leave me, please; I have some things to attend to.”
Barry went out quietly. He had intended forcing a confession from the man, or, at the very least, of bargaining with him for the return of the ranches now that they would be of no value to Moley; but somehow he could not force himself to it. The wolf, old and tired and broken, no longer inspired fear or hatred; just pity.
He was standing on the sidewalk outside the office when there came to him the sound of another shot. Apprehensive, he leaped through the doorway and into the office. Moley lay sprawled across the desk, the Derringer clutched in his left hand. Before him were spread six deeds conveying back to their original owners the six Basin ranches. There were no witnesses to his signature, but in his right hand he still gripped the pen with which he had signed them, and the ink was not yet dry.