SAMUEL PARTRIDGE BROUGHT the packet to Montana’s room. He had been instrumental in the preparation of the bills.
“Here they are. All in order, and, I think, correct. You’ll go over them, of course, to make sure.”
He departed, and Montana riffled them through, noting the form and manner of each bill. Everything seemed in order, but he had to go over them, line by line, word by word. He owed that not only to Ashley but to himself. There were some in this capital who would not be above using him as a cat’s-paw.
Though only mid-afternoon, the light was poor. He lit his lamp, a glance from the window showing that clouds were obscuring the sun.
The study was demanding, though more interesting than he had expected. Finally he stretched and yawned, noticing that it was growing dark outside.
“Time to go eat,” he decided, and found himself eager on more accounts than hunger. Descending to the lobby, he looked about hopefully, but there was no sign of Melissa.
As he stepped outside, a few drops of rain came out of the prevailing blackness. Lights glowed remotely along an all but deserted street. It was a summer storm, nothing more, yet he had a sense of impending trouble, persisting even after a good meal. There was a fresh, washed smell to the air as he returned to the hotel.
He unlocked his door, then, about to strike a light, checked, tense and rigid. For a moment he was like a wolf testing an alien scent, conscious that something was wrong, but not sure of what it might be. Nostrils pinching, he sniffed again.
Someone had been smoking, probably a pipe, since the lingering aroma lacked the richness of a good cigar.
The odor was unmistakably of tobacco. Since he did not smoke, someone had been here; obviously an intruder, since he had locked the door.
Either his visitor had been careless, or in taking precautions had overlooked the obvious, a point apt to be forgotten by a smoker. The clothing of a heavy smoker could become saturated, especially by a strong brand of tobacco. The presence of such a man in an otherwise clear room could leave behind a revealing stench.
Making sure that the room was empty, Montana crossed to the window and pulled down the shade. The room had contained none when he had moved in, but he had seemed one, mindful of possible nocturnal prowlers and how a man could be targeted by the light of a lamp.
With light, he made a more careful survey. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed, and he had left the door locked. But anyone anxious to get in could get a key which would work all the doors on that floor. They would have had only to watch until he went out to supper.
Momentarily he was at a loss. Was he imagining things? That was possible, with senses over-strained. A more careful check confirmed that everything was in order, including the packet of bills intended for the legislature, over which he had been poring. Those might well have held interest for a prowler—
Montana thumbed them through, counting. Twelve, and each in order. Was he allowing his imagination to run away with him? Attacks, when they came, were usually direct and vicious—
Wearily he turned the key, then sat down. He must finish reading these, make sure that each bill was in order as he had promised they would be. Not that it seemed reasonable that they might be otherwise. The other members with whom he had worked were in full agreement on such useful legislation, laws for the common good, matters above partisanship.
He opened the packet to where he had been reading, then grew tense. Outwardly, everything was in order. But here was proof that someone had been in the room, that the papers had been tampered with.
To a casual glance, nothing betraying was visible. If some sheets had been removed and others put in their place, the prowler had done a pain-taking job to make sure that everything matched. Even the handwriting was a near perfect imitation.
Only the sudden storm, catching the messenger on a dark street, had betrayed such care, probably unwittingly.
Here were sheets still damp from the rain, unmistakable among the dry ones at either side.
Even with those there seemed nothing wrong, at first glance. The pattern was preserved. Then, eyes narrowing, Montana went back, re-reading certain paragraphs, frowning as the implications became clear.
In any cursory inspection, tucked among the rest, there was little to attract attention. But the bill had been altered by an added proviso.
Signed into law, it would set up provisions for a toll road, across the Rockies—the same pass where the stage had so narrowly averted disaster not long before. Only his suspicious glance had saved them from disaster.
The bill provided that the toll would run for a decade, with an automatic option for renewal. The baldness of its meaning was obscured with specious provisions regarding improving and maintaining the road.
Toll roads along the frontier were not much used, but neither were they unknown. Some served a useful purpose, built and kept up by operators, where otherwise there would have been no road. On the surface, this purported to be just another of that sort.
Actually the road had already been built and opened, much of the work and expense borne by the stage line, to shorten an otherwise long and difficult route. Now it was public and toll-free. Someone had noticed the possibilities, getting possession of a few acres near the crest, where because of natural barriers the road found its only possible route.
If this bill became law, all who traversed the road would be taxed. It might well become a bonanza for the operator.
Montana shook his head with rueful admiration. Someone had not only seen the possibilities but was taking advantage of the legislative impasse and the likelihood of it being broken to slip this joker into the deck. They had counted on him being too tired by the time he had read this far, too inexperienced, to notice, so that an apparently innocuous section would pass without challenge.
Once he had given his approval, the Governor would skim hastily over the packet, or so they hoped, and the thing would be accomplished. Only after the legislature had adjourned would the thing come to light, and by then it would be too late.
“And I was to rake those chestnuts from the fire, and get burned in the doing,” Montana reflected. “A doggoned smooth scheme, and it almost worked.”
He pondered as to who this hidden operator might be, but there was no clue in the revised packet. Aside from a couple of pages, the remainder seemed to have been untouched.
“If I passed this on to Ashley, and he signed it on my say-so, my name would be mud,” Abbott reflected. “And I’d deserve it. Half the folks would say I was a fool, and the rest would count me a crook. And half of them would be right!” Grimly, he assessed the meaning, with its wider implications. It was bad enough on a personal basis. Montana was his baptismal name, but across the years it had taken on a wider implication, somewhat after the wideness of the Territory, the untrammeled bigness of this country. It was a name doubly to be proud of, to protect and hold high.
For others it would be almost as bad, a betrayal however unintended. He got to his feet, gathering up the papers, unconsciously speaking his thoughts aloud.
“I’ll rout out the clerk and put these in his safe, past any more tampering, then get them corrected in the morning. They’ll be safe there.” The game of politics, he was fast learning, could be as precarious as other pursuits, sometimes as violent and equally dangerous to the unskilled.