The Rose Dawn/Chapter 10

by Stewart Edward White

 

CHAPTER X

I

SHORTLY after Boyd's departure for the East Kenneth came down with a bad cold that resulted in an attack of tonsillitis. He was confined to the house for some days, and when Dr. Wallace finally permitted him to drive out to the Bungalow again, he was pretty wobbly and was afflicted with a bad cough. As may be imagined this seemingly endless separation had been a terrible thing to the lovers, and they greeted each other with the appropriate ecstasy. An apparently blind, unjust, unreasonable fate had smitten them so sorely that at times it had seemed there was no justice in the world. Seconds, minutes, hours, days even, that might have afforded each its splendid rapture, had trooped slowly—so slowly—and grayly by; and were lost irretrievably in the irrevocable past!

Townsend Brainerd remarked:

"Hullo, Ken! How's the boy? Thought you were sick: you certainly made a quick recovery."

But it developed that Ken had not made quite a recovery. He retained an annoying cough that refused to pay any attention to Dr. Wallace's concoctions. Of course he made little account of it himself; but Daphne was absurdly anxious.

"A change of air would remedy the matter," precise little Dr. Wallace told her. "A sojourn of not less than two weeks over the mountains, or anywhere away from the coast, is indicated. These bronchial affections linger persistently at this season."

Kenneth at first scouted the ideas as absurd. He was a great strong brute, and a little cough like this was nothing to bother about for a second. He couldn't get away: he had his work to do. And, besides, think of what it would mean! "Two weeks! Perhaps you could think of it with equanimity; but it is beyond me—when one loves anybody as I do you, two weeks——"

"I know, I know!" cried Daphne. "I can't bear to think of it either. But, Ken——"

Daphne had been brought up in a household over which had hovered the menace of tuberculosis. She had acquired an instinctive horror that was even a little unreasonable. In the end it was decided that Kenneth should go. A letter from Corbell announcing the pigeons and inviting to a shoot decided the matter. The moment of parting was heartrending. It had been agreed that they were to write to one another every day, and the thought had been minutely comforting until some unkind little inner common-sense devil had pointed out that the stages only run once a week. That nearly wrecked the whole expedition. Ken was going nowhere, no matter what the consequences, where he would not hear for one whole week! They worked back slowly against this tide. Finally they arranged to write seven letters at a time, starting now; and to read one a day. Not very satisfactory, but it sufficed. Likewise they picked out a star that could be looked at—undoubtedly to its embarrassment—by both at a certain hour. Other psychically suggestive arrangements were made. Neverthless at the last moment they seemed pitifully inadequate; and if Kenneth could decently have drawn back he would have done so. But that would have been a trifle difficult, considering that he had already sent on his equipment by the stage. So he climbed his horse and rode away, with a sunken sort of feeling that it was all silly, useless; was going to be a bore, and that his main job in life was now to tackle empty days courageously.

This attitude lasted to the foot of the Pass. Then it lightened somewhat under the influence of the sun, the blue sky, the faint aromas from the warmed chaparral, and the spirit-lifting climb toward higher levels. When he topped the range and began his descent into the less familiar country, try as he would he could not keep his spirits down. He did his conscientious best. He thought of Daphne, and how long it was going to be before he saw her again, and all the rest of it, and he whipped his mind into single contemplation of this distressing situation. But the confounded thing would take surreptitious looks ahead toward the end of the day, and the big ranch room with the fire, and how much fun it was going to be to see the gang again, and as to pigeons—Ken had shot quail over here a number of times, but he had never happened to get away when the pigeons were in. They told great stories of the pigeons, how swarms of them fed across open spaces, the birds behind fluttering over those in front in order to get first pickings, and the rear rank fluttering in turn over them, until it was like a wave advancing; how they darted over the passes in the hills, on their way to water, travelling so fast that you had to hold fifteen feet ahead of them; how wary they were, so that in spite of abundance the hunter had to use all his craft; and how the falcons swooped after the killed birds, so that sometimes these swift hawks actually caught the falling pigeon before it hit the ground, leaving the hunter cursing—unless he had a second barrel for the thief! Tall story, that last! Wonder if the shooting is as hard as they make out? Corbell said five to eight shells to a bird; and Corbell was a crack shot. Ken wondered if he was going to disgrace himself. He was a pretty good quail shot now; but this overhead work! Looked as though he'd be kept pretty busy loading up those brass shells of his. And while his introspective mind raced thus like a dog new loosed, sending little thrills of enthusiasm and anticipation through his veins, his surface mind was observing and noting various matters outside. That brush rabbit thought he was hid when he crouched in that shadow; wonder if that's an eagle or a red-tailed hawk sailing yonder—by Jove, it looks a little as if it might be a condor! Those fellows are scarce! Hullo, snake track in the dust! Good deal of water in the river for this time of year—wonder how that will affect the fishing? Something made a whacking rustle in the brush— And at the same time his ordinary, physical senses were calling attention to the comfortable, warm, soaking-in feeling of the sunshine on the back of his neck, or the homely creaking of the saddle leather, or the spice smell of the sage, or the touch of the breeze on his cheek. His consciousness suddenly took command of all these things to discover that he was whistling a lilting tune and jangling his spur chains in rhythm to it! Shocked at the discovery, he was sternly and conscientiously miserable again.

But as he neared the ranch country and his way led out from the river bottoms across the rolling, oak-dotted hills of the cattle ranges, he began to see the pigeons. They slanted across the brilliance of the western sky in long, swift lines: they alighted, and fluttered, and lost balance and flapped back again on the bare branches of the white oaks; the high shrill whistling of their wings was plain to be heard. Kenneth's heart leaped and the blood coursed through his veins. He struck spurs to his dawdling mount, filled with a sudden eagerness to arrive.

And at his call there was such a heartening eruption to the long low veranda of the ranch house: Herbert Corbell, as precise as ever with his wax-pointed moustache, and yet with such a friendly gleam in his eye; and the huge form of Bill Hunter, his honest countenance glowing; and red-faced Shot Sheridan: and of course long lank Frank Moore with his wizened, quizzical humorous expression; and Ravenscroft, the Englishman; and even Carlson, the poet, who might be considered an occasional and honorary member of the Sociedad. Among them squirmed and wagged and bent their spines and wrinkled back their upper lips, and otherwise ingratiated themselves, all the dogs; and Mex Joe flashed his white teeth as he appeared to take Ken's horse. They all welcomed him boisterously, and dragged him in by the leaping fire. Supper was ready almost immediately. After supper a tremendous tobacco smudge was raised, and Ken's excitement was fanned by the discussion of to-day's and to-morrow's hunts.

When he remembered that star, it was already an hour later than the agreed time. He chided himself severely, and tried hard to feel miserable over his separation from Daphne; but the thought of those pigeons kept spoiling it all.

It is a pity this is not a sportsman's narrative, for it would be very interesting to tell here of the band-tailed pigeon shooting of the old days. But we are concerned with other things. Therefore it must be sufficient to say that Kenneth found his enforced absence not without its mitigations. After the first novelty had worn off he did miss Daphne cruelly, and he did look forward with increasing longing to the time when he should return. The rendezvous with the star was now faithfully kept. But that was only when he was alone: and he was alone very little. The rest of the time she lay deep in his heart, and everything he saw and did came through the medium of his love and was tinged by it to a wonderful rosiness; so that take it all in all he was getting through pretty well. The cough was certainly disappearing.

II

Now it happened that the very day after Kenneth had left Arguello, Patrick Boyd returned unexpectedly from the East. He had fully expected to be away for another month; but Bates had concluded arrangements much more quickly than he had anticipated. Boyd caught the first train. He might have telegraphed his arrival; but it hardly seemed important, and he would surprise Ken. Like most surprises, this one missed fire. From the Chinese he learned merely that the young man had gone pigeon shooting, to which Boyd mentally registered approval: Ken had earned a vacation. Then he turned his whole energies to getting action.

For Boyd had the thing sewed up in a gunnysack, as he phrased it. That is to say, Bates and his associates had found ample financial backing; the company had been incorporated under the laws of New Jersey; and Boyd himself stood in a very satisfactory relation to it all. There remained merely to go ahead with the physical details. The first of these was to acquire or tie up the most desirable irrigable property; the second to get rights of way; the third to develop the water rights Boyd had already taken up. After that would come such incidental matters as water power, electric power, municipal supply, and so forth. It looked big!

With at last something definite to which to apply his long-pent energies, Boyd went at things with a vim. The morning after his arrival he had called a special meeting of the First National's directors. He brought to their attention the Peyton loans. These mortgages had been renewed again and again; a further renewal would be asked. He then pointed out that the last interest had not been paid. This had not been pressed because of the Colonel's bereavement, and because of the Colonel's deserved personal popularity. We esteem the Colonel. But it had not been paid since. It was not likely to be paid; nor was future interest. He would show them why: and he went on to analyze exactly the affairs at the ranch, drawing on his intimate knowledge gained through Kenneth's innocent spying. It was evident that by no stretch of the imagination could it be hoped that the principal of the loans could ever be repaid from the ranch activities. In other words it was a bad loan. It was not only a bad loan, but it was too big a loan to be tied up in one piece of property. It had been bad banking, and he did not hesitate to say so. It was the type of banking that, in the financial circles of the East, would, he was free to say, call for the severest criticism, perhaps investigation. Boyd's voice became very crisp at this point. A bank's business is to use its stockholders' and depositors' money wisely and safely. That is its first duty. In opposition to this first duty, no other consideration could have weight. Its funds should at all times be so invested as to bring the highest return consistent with safety: and at the same time on such a basis that they could be liquidated at any time without loss. That was a commonplace. Had that been done here? Boyd stated with great positiveness to the contrary. Corona del Monte might be fairly considered worth more than the loans on it, to be sure; but not in a forced sale. And a forced sale was the criterion. If on foreclosure the bank could not regain its loan, and interest, from the auction price of the ranch, it would be forced to keep it. And running a ranch is about the poorest thing a bank can do.

The board listened to all this rather glumly. Nobody likes to be called a fool or scolded; and most of these men, conservatives of the old Arguello type, had no use for Boyd's dominating, enterprising schemes, anyway.

"Do I understand, Mr. Boyd, that you have called this especial meeting to advocate not renewing Colonel Peyton's mortgage?" asked Oliver Mills, dryly. "I believe those notes are not due for some months yet and consideration of them might quite well have come before a regular meeting."

"Not at all," Boyd countered, squaring his bulky form toward the speaker. "I've called this board together to do business; and I am pointing out a few basic facts to put it in mind to do business. I mean just this, if you want it plainly: You've made a damn bad deal in this Peyton business; just about as silly as the Las Flores loan."

"We got out of that in good shape," objected Squires, a director.

"By means of a miracle—the land boom," stated Boyd, caustically, "a miracle, I may add, that is not due to repeat; and will have to be paid for, in spite of what some people say." He stared sardonically at Squires, and the latter squirmed, remembering that Boyd had nipped him in the boom, and still held him. "Now when these Peyton notes come due—whether it's to-morrow or a year from to-morrow—one of two things will have to be done: either you'll have to renew the mortgage or you'll have to foreclose it. I shall resist renewal, and I shall give my reasons before the State Board of Examiners. Foreclosure will harm all concerned."

He paused so long that Oliver Mills felt constrained to say something.

"I suppose you have something to propose," he said wearily.

"Right! It is this: I will discount that paper at its full valuation."

A silence greeted this offer while the members digested the idea.

"I don't' believe I quite follow Mr. Boyd," said old Mr. Donovan at last. "He has been pointing out to us the undesirability of this matter in one breath; and then in the next he offers to take it over himself. I would like to have that discrepancy explained."

"Now, that is good, clear common sense," said Boyd, heartily, "and I am glad to explain in two words. My son is interested in the ranch business, and I am certain he can develop this property and put it on a paying basis."

"Have you talked with Colonel Peyton on this matter?" someone asked.

"I have made the Colonel substantial offers—more than he can get by foreclosure; but I regret to say that he does not see them. I may add that I stand ready to repeat those offers at any time—nothing could be fairer than that."

"I don't like it," mumbled Squiers, doubtfully.

Boyd turned on him swiftly.

"Good Lord, neither do I!" he cried. "But what has that to do with it? It's a plain business transaction. The man has borrowed more than he can pay. The matter, gentlemen, is not in your discretion. You are not acting as individuals, but as trustees for others. I tell you here and plainly that one of two things is going to happen: either you sell me these notes now, in which case I will personally take care of the Colonel; or you will most certainly be required to foreclose, in which case the exact legal steps of the law will be taken, and not one step more!"

"And what if we do neither?" demanded Donovan, half rising.

Boyd hit the table with his clenched fist.

"I'm here to see that you do," he thundered. "I've been through this mill before, gentlemen; and, believe me, I mean business!" He glanced down the director's table. "There are others beside Colonel Peyton who are skating on thin ice," he added significantly.

"Is that to be understood as a threat?" asked Donovan, pugnaciously.

"You bet your sweet life that's a threat!" rejoined Boyd with unexpected candour. "And if you don't believe I can make good on it, just try it and see! Mind you," he added, "I'm not pretending to dictate what you shall do; but you've got to do something legal in this matter, and do it now." He glanced again down the board table. Two of the directors were glaring back at him belligerently. The rest were staring at the polished surface of the table. "Your course of action is as follows: you can sell to me; you can sell to somebody else—and I wish you joy in finding another human being who would give you three cents for the proposition as it stands; you can foreclose. In the first case, all right. In the second place, all right, and God bless you, if you can find a purchaser. In the third case you're going against bank examiners and plenty of publicity, I can promise you that."

Boyd sat down. Donovan and the other belligerent member jumped into the ring excitedly; but the others remained troubled, looking down. Three of them were absolutely in Boyd's hands, financially, since the collapse of the boom. The others recognized his power as a fighting man, as a financial magnate, as an experienced manipulator; they understood the weakness of their own position insofar as it had been based on sentiment rather than sound business considerations. After a time Oliver Mills interrupted the acrimonious flow.

"Gentlemen, in my opinion Mr. Boyd is right, much as some of us may deplore that fact. We are here to function as bankers. Colonel Peyton's case has been many times paralleled in the history of California. He is one of my dearest friends. I would much rather this would happen to me than to him," the little president was speaking with real emotion. "Owing to that fact perhaps we have let things run beyond discretion. Left to ourselves," his voice took on an edge, "possibly we might have continued to do so."

Twenty minutes later the matter was settled. It was voted to sell the notes and the mortgage underlying them to Patrick Boyd. Oliver Mills, with a heavy heart, agreed himself to tell Colonel Peyton and to explain the necessity. It was promised that the papers would be ready and the transaction finished the first day of the following month. Boyd himself stipulated for this delay. He was in haste to get the sale voted upon and entered in the minutes; but was reluctant to hand over funds until he had the other elements of his scheme a little more in hand. He had no fear that another purchaser of the notes could be found. It was too soon after the boom: you couldn't have sold a corner lot in the New Jerusalem for seventy-five cents.

The meeting broke up sadly. The board members talked low-voiced among themselves, pointedly ignoring Boyd's exit. Much he cared! The opinion for or against of these country bumpkins, these sentimental old maids, these spineless weaklings that could not stand up in a fair fight for even one round was not worth having. Boyd knew by experience that success is the thing. In two years everybody would have forgotten all about everything; except possibly a few of the closest friends of this obstructive old fool. And to the new population, the dwellers on the prosperous, smiling irrigated farms; the thousands who must flock to this garden spot of the world, Patrick Boyd would be what he was—leading citizen, public benefactor, bringer of prosperity, the man with vision who had seen and brought in a new era. Outside the bank building he paused to light a cigar. He was well satisfied.

"I'm sorry; you don't know how sorry I am," Oliver Mills was saying to his confrères, who were too dejected to disperse. "But it has been a long time coming. I don't see how it could be helped."

"There isn't one thing anybody can do, as I can see," agreed someone.

"It's happened to about all the big Spanish grants," said another, "but, gosh! I do wish it hadn't happened to this one."

"Well, there's nothing to be done about it," repeated the first speaker.

III

The Chinese factotum of the bank, who had all this time been deliberately washing the tall windows at the end of the room, now folded up his step ladder, picked up his pail and mop, and padded out on his felt-soled shoes. His name was Sing Gee, and he was very high among the Sings. In business hours he washed floors and windows and cuspidors and ink wells and things for the bank. Out of business hours he occupied an airless back room behind a store that sold highly varnished ducks. Where repaired to him many oriental magnificos and bravos who from him took orders. He was in addition a graduate of Harvard and spoke English almost without an accent; an accomplishment that, for some mysterious reason of his own, he hid under an inscrutable demeanour and almost inunderstandable "pidgin."

Depositing the utensils of his bondage in a closet he approached the cashier.

"I go now," he stated.

"Go now?" repeated the cashier. "What for you go? Him 'leven o'clock. You no go now."

"Yes. I go now. My second-uncle he sick."

The cashier was an old Californian, and instantly conceded the point, contenting himself with asking if Sing Gee expected to return or whether his second-uncle's illness was to result in a permanent withdrawal.

"I come back wo'k tomollah," stated Sing Gee, and departed.

From the little room behind the varnished ducks he sharply despatched a youth, who sped so well that within two hours he returned driving with old Sing Toy behind the ancient furry animal that drew Corona del Monte's Chinese vegetable wagon. Sing Toy bowed profoundly from the waist and stood with his hands folded across his stomach, his beady black eyes fixed on Sing Gee's face while the latter apparently indulged in a long cantata. Then Sing Toy clucked twice, bowed again from the waist, and withdrew. The rest of the afternoon he devoted to what might have been a house to house canvass of Chinatown, holding long animated confabulations with many red-button Celestials. At the close of each of these interviews he wrote several characters on a tablet he produced from his sleeve. When he had finished all his visits he seated himself before a teakwood abacus, or counting frame, and referring to the marks on his tablet he rapidly nipped the polished buttons back and forth on their wires. He contemplated the result with a slight frown; sighed; and returned to the back room. Sing Gee listened to what he had to say, nodded, spoke low-toned to an attendant, and went on puffing at his long-stemmed pipe. The attendant disappeared for a moment, but returned carrying a revolver. It was a wicked looking weapon, a Colts 45, but with the barrel sawed off within two inches of the frame. He handed this to Sing Toy, who glanced at the cylinders, tucked it in his sleeve, bowed again, and departed.

Next he drove the vegetable wagon around to Patrick Boyd's residence where he carried on a long conversation with the Chinaman—also a Sing—employed in that household. Thence he returned to the ranch, which he reached about sunset.

"Well, Sing Toy," observed the Colonel, as he drove up, "I began to think I wasn't going to get any dinner."

Sing Toy's beady eyes rested on him, and their inscrutable surface clouded and something very like compassion arose from their unsuspected depths.

"My second-uncle, he got sick," said Sing Toy.

IV

The rumour went abroad with astonishing rapidity that Corona del Monte was to pass from its present owner. There were a very few to say I-told-you-so; but the sincere regret was almost universal. The Colonel was not only popular: he represented the good old days that had gone forever. This was the last of the original Ranchos to stand intact on the tax books of the county. All the others had been divided and divided again, new names constantly edging in, until the old names were lost, swamped. Everybody remembered the old lavish fiestas; nobody but at one time or another, whether at occasion of rejoicing or distress, but had received from the overflowing bounty of Corona del Monte, whether it was substantial help in dire need, or merely a bouquet of flowers, a basket of fruit, or a visit instinct with genuine kindly feeling. People gathered on the corners and talked of it, with shakes of the head. It was considered remarkable, of course, that it had not happened long ago. The passing of all grandeurs was in the course of nature. Nothing could be done about it. Certainly no one was to blame. But there was a genuine sorrow over it for a day or two.

This rumour did not reach to the Bungalow until it was two days old; and to the Colonel not at all. Oliver Mills had put off informing his old friend of the contemplated change, partly from cowardice, partly because he wanted to spare pain as long as possible. The situation would in no way be altered by the first of the month. As to Townsend Brainerd and Daphne, the story came to them in such diluted form that it did not arouse any immediate alarm.

"There are always these fool rumours of foreclosure," said Brainerd contemptuously, and dismissed it from his mind.

Daphne, as more on the inside, realized that Boyd's return probably meant the beginning of what they had feared. But by now she shared Kenneth's confidence that he would be able to clear the matter. Kenneth would be returning the next week. As none of the mortgages came due for some months yet, there seemed to her no pressing emergency. However, she wrote Kenneth that his father had returned, and that rumour was busy with his intentions as to Corona del Monte; and sent the letter by the stage, which happened to go next day.

This letter, which was a fat one, was brought in to Corbell's ranch by a rider who had met the stage for that purpose at a point some miles distant. It was accompanied by various other letters and papers for all members of the party. The others drew up around the lamp to read their share at leisure; but Kenneth seized his prize and withdrew to the privacy of his room.

For a time there was silence, except for the crackling of the fire and the sucking sound of pipes. Then Corbell uttered a profane exclamation that caused them all to look up.

"Look here, what Jim Paige writes!" he cried, and began to read:

"There's been a story floating around for a couple of days about the bank's foreclosing on Colonel Peyton. It got so strong that I called in Chan Squiers and tackled him about it. Seems I struck it right there, for Chan was pretty mad about it. They had a meeting the other day at the bank and voted to sell the Colonel's mortgage to Patrick Boyd. He announced flatly that it was his intention to put the Colonel out and put his precious son in. What do you think of that after said precious son has been 'learning the business' right at the Colonel's for the last three or four years? Pretty neat, I call it. I asked Chan why the devil they ever sold the notes, and he said Boyd just bull-dozed them into it, there was no way out. I guess myself that he had it on them someway, but that wasn't the important point. It was pretty serious, so I took pains to inquire carefully. I sort of liked young Boyd, and I felt pretty sorry about it. But it's so, all right. I'm no financier, but it looks like a damn dirty deal. But I suppose there's nothing to be done."

A flat silence succeeded this reading.

"I—I don't quite get it," said Bill Hunter at last.

"It's sufficiently surprising; but it's plain enough," said Corbell, icily. "This pair of sharps is trying to do the Colonel out of his property, and I don't doubt they'll succeed."

Bill whistled slowly.

"But I don't believe Ken had a thing to do with it," he blurted, "I like that kid."

"Jim Paige doesn't shoot his mouth off at random," Corbell pointed out, "especially a thing like this. He was pretty friendly with young Boyd, too."

"I must say I like his cheek, chumming about with us all this fashion—and with the Colonel, too, for that matter," observed Ravenscroft.

"In all probability he sees nothing out of the way in it," replied Corbell, bitterly. "It's just business with that sort. Probably he'd be surprised to know that anybody could see anything to object to!"

"Well, he's going to know pretty plain that I see something to object to!" stated Frank Moore, with great positiveness.

"Here he comes now," said Big Bill.

Kenneth appeared in the doorway. The letter had been very satisfactory, and therefore he was feeling, and looking, particularly cheerful.

"Well, where you decided to shoot to-morrow?" he called, as he entered the room.

There was no response. Kenneth looked about in surprise. The men were sitting in constraint, and were looking at him.

"What's up?" demanded Kenneth with a slight laugh. "You look solemn."

"Boyd," began Corbell, crisply, "I have known you off and on for some time in rather a casual fashion, and have always liked you. But neither I nor my friends have ever had occasion to inquire into your standards. We have assumed them to be the same as ours. We have received you as one of us on that basis."

Kenneth looked from one to the other puzzled. The smile had faded from his lips, but lingered in the corners of his mouth, ready to come back if it only proved to be another of the typical elaborate hoaxes.

"But there are some things that, according to our standards, no decent man would do."

"May I ask what you are driving at?" asked Kenneth, defensively.

Corbell handed him the letter. Kenneth read it through, slowly, the colour ebbing from his face. When he had finished he threw his head back.

"Do you believe this of me?" he asked simply.

"Jim Paige is not a man to make rash statements," said Corbell.

"I am not referring to what the facts may or may not be. I am referring to your inferences as to motives. This," Kenneth struck the letter violently with his fingers, but immediately regained control of himself, "states that there have been certain negotiations as to Colonel Peyton's ranch between my father and the bank. It goes on to impute base motives both to my father and myself. I am not asking you about my father—you don't know him. I am asking you about myself; you do know me. Do you believe this of me?"

"If the facts are as stated, what else are we to believe?" asked Frank Moore bluntly.

Kenneth turned on him almost savagely.

"Facts or no facts, do you think I am the sort to do a dirty trick to a man like Colonel Peyton; that's what I want to know?"

"No, by God, I don't!" roared big Bill Hunter.

"Thank you, Bill," said Kenneth gently, but he continued to look at the others.

It was Carlson, the poet, who took the situation out of the emotional and brought it to a basis of sense.

"Now see here, Kenneth," he said. "You know you can't, in the circumstances, expect to put us on the defensive. I don't think anybody suspects that you would deliberately do anything you would think wrong. What we are trying to find out is what do you think wrong, when it comes to a matter of business? We think this thing needs explanation; and, personally, I believe we have a right to an explanation."

"I haven't been asked for an explanation, I've been condemned," stated Kenneth curtly.

"Beg your pardon, Boyd," said Corbell, stiffly. "My fault."

"Now, Kenneth," said Carlson, not unkindly. "Tell us all you know of this, if you feel like doing so."

Kenneth hesitated, half in anger and half in embarrassment as to how to begin.

"Come on, kid," rumbled Big Bill.

"I don't understand all of this, myself," he said. "It's largely rumour with me. My father has never talked to me about it, nor even mentioned the subject. I do know he made an offer to the Colonel of some kind, but that the Colonel refused. I do know, too, that the Colonel is in serious difficulties. But as to this talk about my father's putting the Colonel off and getting the ranch for me, that is just rot. There has been nothing of that sort in view. I wouldn't be party to any such arrangement: and you know I wouldn't, fellows." He looked about with almost boyish appeal; but, meeting only grave attention, except in the direction of Bill Hunter, he regathered himself and went on. "Nor would my father, of that I am sure, if he understood the whole situation. He is an Eastern business man trained in business methods. He wouldn't do the Colonel a harm for the world; but I do not doubt he sees the situation from the business point of view only. Fellows, I'm positively certain that when I get a chance to talk to him I can make him see how much the old ranch means to the Colonel. He's never thought of that side of it. To him the ranch is just a piece of property; and he's thinking of it as property all the time. He knows that the Colonel has involved it deeply, and that as a business proposition it is in bad shape, and the natural thing for him to do as a business man is to figure on how the business situation can be bettered——" He broke off in apparent despair of adequate expression of this point of view. "I can't make you see it: but, fellows, please don't make up your minds until I get a chance to talk to him! I know I can fix it all right!"

The men were glancing doubtfully toward one another. No one spoke. Carlson again took charge of the situation.

"Would you mind letting us talk over this situation alone?" he suggested. He smiled. "Looks a little like a jury out for a verdict, doesn't it? But it isn't that, Kenneth. We value your friendship too much not to wish to retain it. On the other hand we are old-timers here, you know. Won't you think of us as friends anxious to find a way out of a very difficult situation? Come back in half an hour and we'll talk our plan over."

Kenneth made no sign, except that his gaze rested on one after the other.

"Come on, kid," rumbled Big Bill again.

The young man apparently found what he wanted in the eyes of the other men, for he turned and, without a word, went out.

"The boy is square," said Carlson decidedly, the moment he disappeared.

"You bet you!" chimed in Bill Hunter.

"I'm not so absolutely certain," doubted Frank Moore.

"I am," reasserted Carlson. "I watched him closely. He's just trying to be loyal to his father. I am convinced he knows no more about this than we do, and that he's nearly as much surprised."

"I agree with you," put in Ravenscroft.

"How about the old man, then?" asked Frank, abandoning the other point for the moment.

"He!" cried Carlson. "He's a wolf! I saw something of his methods in the boom; and I know his type in the East. He is what they're calling a captain of industry. He thinks he is perfectly honest and fair, and that makes him more dangerous. His honesty is keeping inside a hair line of legality. His fairness is an idea that the other fellow ought to be able to take care of himself. I'll believe anything of him—except perhaps that he'd ever go back on his word once it was clearly given."

"You talk like you'd burnt your fingers at that fire," drawled Frank Moore.

"I know what I'm talking about," shot back Carlson.

"Ken thinks it will be all right once he gets a chance to explain the situation," suggested Corbell.

Carlson hesitated. "I have no faith in it," he said at last. "That's just as I read human nature, though, and the type. Once any of these so-called big men get their course laid you can talk a thousand years and not swerve them a hair's breadth. He won't pay any attention to Ken's argument: he will simply look on it as idealistic talk of a boy who doesn't understand the situation. Those fellows have a huge conceit for their point of view."

"Then your opinion is that Ken won't be able to do anything?" asked Corbell.

"Not because of any reasons he may give. I don't know whether, if he presses it strongly enough, Boyd will give way to him on grounds of affection or not. I believe he is very fond of Kenneth. Personally I think he will not. What do you think, Bert?"

"I agree with you," said Corbell.

"Gosh! It's kind of tough on Ken!" cried Bill Hunter.

"Tough on Ken!" repeated Frank Moore, disgustedly. "You fellows make me sick! I'm not worried about Ken; I'm thinking about the old Colonel. Ken's young. He's got a tough time coming out of this—sure! But he'll get over it. That's his business. Got to take that sort of thing as it comes. But the Colonel won't get over it. You take Corona del Monte away from him now, and he's going to die, that's all! Quit your thinking about this kid and his poor feelings and get down to brass tacks."

"You're right, Frank," agreed Corbell to this outburst. "I think we ought to give Ken a chance to see what he can do, but 1 think we ought t6 assume for purposes of discussion that he will fail."

"You bet your life he'll fail," growled Moore.

Then ensued a short silence. Nobody, apparently, could think of anything.

"The Colonel," said Corbell hesitatingly, after a moment, "probably did more kind things to me personally when I first came out here to go into the ranching business than any of you know. I'd do anything I could for him, and I'd take up his notes myself like a shot if I could afford it."

"The Colonel's done a lot for every man jack of us," struck in Carlson, "but if he hadn't done one damn thing for me I'd be there with the bells on to my limit. Fellows, it's a bad thing for the human race to see a man live his life as kindly, as affectionately, as nobly, as broadly and unselfishly as Colonel Peyton has in this community, and then at the last seem to fail. Talk about public improvements! He's worth more in making Arguello stand out than a thousand public improvements!"

"Hear, hear!" said Frank Moore, ironically. "But where are we getting? What we going to do about it? I don't know how deep this trouble is, but I can raise exactly five thousand dollars on my old shack and surrounding landscape: they told me so at the bank last week. Wish it was more, but the sons of guns have no hearts."

They drew together and compared notes. The total did not look very satisfactory. To be sure the aggregate represented what was to them a very large sum; but they were all practical ranchmen, they knew the value of Corona del Monte, and they realized that the liabilities must be heavy seriously to threaten it. They stared at each other a little hopelessly.

"I know what I'd do," stated Big Bill at length, "I'd just naturally shanghai the son of a gun after he'd bought that mortgage and sort of induce him to sign it over to us, or renew it, or something."

"Of course he'd do it!" said Frank, sarcastically.

"He would by the time I'd got through with him."

"You'd have to kill him first," said Corbell, impatiently.

"I'd just as leave kill him," replied Big Bill; and meant it.

They savoured this idea for a moment.

"No good," Corbell decided, with a sigh, "a signature obtained under threat is not legal."

"Well, who's going to know how we got the signature," urged Bill. "Let him tell his yarn: we'll just deny it."

"He'd get you into court and put you under oath. You'd have to tell the truth; or perjure yourself."

"Well, I'd perjure myself," agreed Bill, equably.

"What?" gasped Ravenscroft.

"In a holy minute!" insisted Bill, stoutly. "And so would you. All we got to do is to agree, and stay with it. I'd do worse than that for a man like Colonel Peyton against a man like this Boyd."

This idea, too, fascinated them to the point of silence for a moment. It was broken by Carlson. Again the poet proved himself practical.

"Leaving all those questions of ethics aside," he said. "It wouldn't work. You might actually kill the man, but you'd never get his signature. Nobody could ever force him to do anything. He's a fighter. I know the type."

And such was the respect of these ranchmen for the intuitive knowledge of mankind in this their one creative artist, that they accepted his dictum as a fact, and instantly abandoned Bill Hunter's gorgeous wild-west idea.

For ten minutes longer they discussed possibilities but arrived nowhere. Then Carlson went out to find Ken.

"I think I can fix things up better with him alone than having him in here before us all as though he were getting a verdict," he said. "You know, after all, the situation is rather hard on him."

They were only too glad to agree; for, like all men, they hated the idea of a possible open display of sentiment or emotion.

VI

Early the following morning the party took horse to a man and moved back to Arguello. Kenneth's renewed expressions of confidence in his ability to arrange matters were received without open scepticism. Nevertheless, it was felt desirable that Colonel Peyton's friends should be on hand to receive an immediate report. That was the way they put it. Kenneth agreed to interview his father at once, and then to meet the Sociedad no matter what the hour, in the little room back of the Fremont bar. Accordingly he rode on into town and directly to his home. He cast a longing eye on the cross roads leading up to the Bungalow. It would not take very long to gallop up there, greet Daphne and hurry on. He desired to do so with a great desire, but put the thought from him.

It was not until after the evening meal, however, that Patrick Boyd would touch on business.

"I know; I've got something to tell you, too," he informed Kenneth; "but let's talk it over in the den. I want to hear about you, since I've been gone."

Once settled in a big easy chair and his cigar alight, Boyd said:

"Well, what you got on your mind?"

Kenneth found it unexpectedly difficult to begin.

"Why, it's this business of Colonel Peyton's ranch," he blurted at last.

Boyd's heavy face lit with pleasure.

"Why, that's funny; that's just what I wanted to talk to you about, Ken, that's one of the biggest propositions I've seen on this coast, as it stacks up at present. I can't conceive of a better opening for a young fellow in a big operation than there is right there now. That's what I've been East to see about. And I fixed it! Why, my boy, I've got the biggest names in New York back of me! I didn't want to tell you much about it before it was a settled matter, because I didn't want to disappoint you if it fell through; but, son, it's riveted tight now!"

He beamed and slapped his thick leg resoundingly.

"But, father——" Kenneth began.

"Hold on! My innings! You can talk later. I've been holding in long enough. Listen here——" he leaned forward in his easy chair. "I've got Bates into this thing, and Van Steyn of the Old National, and Saltonstall, the Wall Street man. We're incorporated in New Jersey for a million. All I've got to do is to gather up the loose ends, and we can start right in with our heavy construction."

"Heavy construction?" repeated Kenneth. He was puzzled. This did not sound like anything to do with Colonel Peyton.

Boyd laughed.

"I forgot you didn't know. Well, the scheme is this: I've got water rights in the Sur staked out and tied down. All that is necessary, my engineers say, is to do certain tunnel work and build certain dams. I've got, or got options upon, rights of way for pipe lines or ditches. We can bring water enough down to irrigate an immense area of land. In addition when Arguello outgrows her present water supply—as anybody but these mossbacks here could see is bound to happen—we'll be in shape to step in. Also we're figuring on some scheme to generate electricity—possibly by a series of reservoirs at different levels so as not to waste the irrigation water. It's a big proposition!"

"It certainly is!" cried Kenneth, fired with the enthusiasm of the vision, and greatly relieved that this scheme seemed to be the basis of his father's activities. But the next speech dashed him.

"The big money, though, at the start is from this Peyton property," pursued Boyd. He laughed like a delighted boy. "That's where you come in, Ken: that's your part of it. You've earned the chance. Without you the scheme wouldn't have been considered."

"What do you mean?" demanded Kenneth.

"Your work at Brainerd's that gave me the idea. Don't you see, if you hadn't showed there what could actually be done on a small scale—demonstrated it—, that nobody'd have the nerve to tackle it on a big scale? With that example right next door, you can satisfy anybody that, with the water we can supply them, they can make a living off ten acres and a darn good thing off twenty! Now you take that Peyton property. It can be taken over at the present time for what amounts to an average of ten dollars an acre. And that's every cent it's worth," he added, noting a change in Kenneth's expression. "Don't forget that final value is what is put into raw material. And any land around here is nothing but raw material. Now that same land, divided, will sell at the start-off for three hundred an acre; and later some of it will go as high as a thousand. That's where the really big profits of the water scheme will come in."

He leaned back, smiling triumphantly at his son.

"But, father, it would kill Colonel Peyton to lose his ranch."

"He's lost it already," Boyd waved this aside. "Of course, we'll take care of the old man. He'll be a lot better off than he would be otherwise."

"The ranch is part of his very existence, father. Wouldn't some other property do?"

"Of course a great deal of property will come under irrigation when the water is developed," answered Boyd, patiently, "but there is nothing as centrally located, as directly in line of the water, that lays as well for irrigation, or that offers near the chance. And I don't believe we could find anything anywhere else as cheap."

Kenneth was silent for some moments. He did not know how to begin.

"Father," he said at last, "you say this land part of it is mine. I'm willing to take less profits. Consider something else beside the Peyton ranch."

Boyd opened his eyes wide.

"What's the idea?" he demanded.

"I like the Colonel. I don't want to see him in trouble."

"What's that got to do with it? He's in trouble already."

"Yes, I know. But he could go on as he is, if you did not act. You know that, father. Let's leave the old man in peace. He's lived on that place for a long time."

"Ken, I do wish you would grow up and be a man," said Boyd impatiently, but not unkindly. "You must get over this sentimentalizing and look at plain facts."

Kenneth threw himself heart and soul into his plea. It must be confessed that he was not too coherent: his feelings were too deeply involved. Boyd listened at first with incredulity, then with impatience, ending in an attitude of combined amusement and toleration. His thought could have been read by a disinterested bystander. Kenneth was younger than he had imagined. Also he was disappointed. Where he had anticipated sympathy and understanding, he encountered opposite. Well, he had generally played a lone hand.

"You don't quite know what you are talking about, Ken," he said. "When you are older you will see things in a more practical way; and you will thank me for not doing as you wish now. I know you mean it, but it's moonshine; it's not practical."

Kenneth experienced at once a sinking of dismay and a flush of anger. No one likes to be relegated cavalierly to the infant class.

"Then you're going right ahead in this—this scheme?" he stammered.

"Why, of course, my boy."

"But if I understand it, you are doing this mostly for me. I don't want it. I'll gladly give up any interest I may have."

"I wouldn't let you," said Boyd, decidedly.

"But——"

"See here, Ken, I don't want to treat you as anything but as a grown-up man; but you must act like one. Good Lord! How in the world can you expect to succeed in business if you act like this every time you step on any one's toes!"

"Well, then, I don't want to succeed in business!" cried Kenneth.

This was too childish. Boyd looked at his son coldly.

"Well, I do," he stated. "I've put a lot of time and thought into this scheme. I am very much disappointed that it does not meet with your approval, but it will of course go on without it. Do you realize that I am involved in this thing, that I have given my word and pledged my honour to associates in the East? Even if I were inclined to drop this matter on account of your attitude toward it—which I am not——, it would be impossible. It has gone too far. How would I look trying to draw back from my agreements because my son felt sorry for someone? You can see yourself that it is nonsense."

He had kept his hard direct gaze fixed on his son's face during the delivery of this speech. Kenneth's head had dropped as the unexpected realization was forced on him that his father would be as impervious to influence as a diving suit to water. Boyd thought this attitude of sadness betokened resignation.

"You'll feel differently about it," he said more kindly. "Think it over. And don't worry about old Peyton. We'll take care of him in good shape. You can pretty near fix him up to suit yourself, if you want to. Better turn in. I'm going to read awhile before I go over for the mail."

Kenneth hesitated. His spirit was like lead. It fluttered its bruised wings, but could not stir from the depths. There was nothing he could add to his impassioned appeal: there was no other angle from which the steel fortress of Boyd's ideas, training, and ethical code could be approached.

"Good night, Father," he said miserably, and went out.

VII

The four blocks' walk to the Fremont was a bitter one. Kenneth's confidence had been so great that all that would be necessary would be to make his father understand the situation, that he would rather have died than face his friends with a confession of failure. And worse than this he would have to acknowledge before them that his father—his own father—was capable of actions that he himself could not approve. Ken's feeling of family loyalty fought hard. Was he to turn against his own father? Should he not stick to him, right or wrong? His affectional instincts tore at his decision. Slower and slower became his steps, as he pondered.

At the square devoted to the beginnings of a city park he turned in one of the paths and sat down on a bench beneath a pepper tree; and there fought the matter out with himself. So absorbed was he that for twenty minutes his attitude did not change by so much as a hair's breadth. At last he arose, his mind made up. The immediate, the insistent thing was to serve justice. If he could do anything to help Colonel Peyton, he must do it. He must be personally loyal to his father, and must make that evident to the others.

He found the situation unexpectedly easy. The members of the Sociedad glanced at his face, nodded gravely to his constrained statement that his father seemed too deeply involved with Eastern men to abandon the scheme, and dismissed that aspect of the subject.

"We've been getting a few details while you were away," Corbell told him. "We know the amount of the notes and how much in arrears the interest is. Also we know that the mortgage is to be made over to Mr. Boyd the first of the month. That gives us four days. Now it remains to see if we can do anything."

"I've been thinking," suggested Kenneth, "that if I only had time to make the arrangements, I could get hold of my own property. That might help in some way."

"Own property?"—"how much?"—"what do you mean?" cried Corbell, Carlson, and Frank Moore in a breath.

"I have an inheritance—from my mother," said Kenneth. "It would take care of about half of this thing, if I could realize on it. Perhaps we could fix up the other half somehow."

"You mean you'd use this?" asked Corbell.

"Why, of course."

"On what basis?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean how would you invest it here? How would you expect it to be secured at the ranch?"

"Oh, I don't know. I don't care much. That could be fixed in any way, just so the Colonel was all right."

"Well, what's the use of talking? You haven't got it," grumbled Frank Moore.

"I know it!" cried Ken. "If we only had more time! I suppose it would take ten days, anyway, even if we wired."

"You could realize in ten days? Your property is in securities?" struck in Corbell keenly.

"Yes," replied Kenneth to both questions.

"And you'd do it?"

"Of course I would. But we haven't got but four days."

Corbell turned to big Bill Hunter.

"Here's where you have your innings, old hippopotamus," he said. "No, listen," he commanded, as the others started to speak. "I think we can pull this off. Ken will send for his money: that makes half. We'll get busy at the banks and raise what we can. That leaves only about thirty thousand dollars shy. Hell! We'll either raise that, somehow, or leave it."

"But we've only got four days," objected Frank Moore.

"We've got until Patrick Boyd goes down to complete the transaction."

"Well, he'll be there on the minute——" began Bill Hunter; but the quicker-witted practical joker in Frank Moore caught the point.

"Kipnap him!" he cried. "Great! That's where you come in, Bill."

"And hold him nice and safe and peaceful and mad until we've completed the deal and got the thing tied down," added Corbell.

"The bank has voted to sell to Boyd," interposed Ravenscroft, with one of his common-sense flashes. "Suppose it will not sell to us?"

"It will to Kenneth, if he works it right. They can be gently led to believe he's acting for his father."

"Will you do that, old man?" asked Ravenscroft.

"I suppose so," said Kenneth, miserably. "If it's the only way."

"You're all right, kid," rumbled Big Bill.

Ravenscroft, who was near him, patted him on the shoulder. Such a demonstration from the usually self-contained Englishman caused a lump to form in Kenneth's throat.

"We'll make it as easy as we know how," said Frank Moore, and at this amend Ken had to wink hard. The strain had been relieved; and the old atmosphere of trust and good-fellowship reëstablished. A little warmth of comfort crept into Kenneth's heart. He could not but feel himself a traitor in some way, and the whole situation a disaster. He was going through with his duty, but dully; and after it was performed he could not see bow the future was to help him.

Corbell briskly brought the conference back to practical considerations.

"The agreement with the bank was that these notes were to be bought in four days, as I understand it. Suppose they stick tight on that, and refuse to extend the time? We've got to think of everything, you know."

But Frank Moore could see no difficulty here.

"Ken will go ahead at the proper day," said he, "and then he can insist on an abstract, and search title, and fiddle around. Get a lawyer; that's what they are for."

"I guess you're right. All right. Now let's get this straight. Ken is to wire for his money at once. We are to raise ours right away."

"How about the remaining thirty thousand?" "On what basis is this money to be put in?" asked Carlson and Frank in a breath.

"We've got ten days to figure all those details," Corbell reminded them. His black eyes were dancing, and the sharp, waxed points of his moustache seemed to stick out as though quivering with eagerness. "I'm laying out present activities. Kenneth goes into the bank Monday and fixes it up, in his name. In the meantime we see that Mr. Boyd has a good pigeon shoot over the mountains. That all clear?"

"Oh, I feel like a traitor!" burst out Kenneth. "My own father!"

"You mustn't feel that way, Ken," said the poet, gently. "We all know that your father is honestly acting according to his lights. But there isn't time to convince him. It's a matter of education. We have to adopt measures to fit an immediate need. You must keep in mind all the time through this that we know you are doing what is right against all your natural instincts and affections, and that we honour and admire you for it from the bottom of our hearts."

"Hear! hear!" applauded Ravenscroft.

"And that we understand how your father looks at it, and we understand that it is not himself nor his business we disapprove of, but only the fact that those methods cannot fit this case. And we realize that this case is so different from your father's experience that he simply cannot understand it as we do, who have been brought up here. We esteem your father as much as you do, really."

"The hell we do!" growled Frank Moore, but he said it under his breath; and he received a kick in the shin from Corbell for his pains.

Kenneth looked measurably relieved at this speech. He was in the frame of mind when a little comfort goes a long way.

"Now perhaps you'd better get down town to the telegraph office," Corbell suggested to Ken. "Nothing like the present!"

The moment the young man had departed, Corbell drew the group closer together.

"Now to get hold of Boyd," said he. "We can't precisely storm his house, and we can't precisely abduct him off the streets in broad daylight."

"Ask him to go somewhere with us, and then nail him," suggested Moore, carelessly.

Corbell thought for some moments.

"I've got it. Get some letter paper, someone. I'll tell him we want his opinion as a banker on the value of that old hog wallow Frank bought in the boom, and ask him to drive out there in the morning."

But Frank, who had gone out for the paper, came hurrying back.

"He's out there in the office now!" he cried. "Barney says he comes over every evening about this time after his mail."

"He probably goes straight home from here," surmised the quick-witted Corbell. "He wouldn't carry a lot of mail around with him otherwise."

"The park is a nice dark place," observed Bill Hunter. "He must pass that."

Corbell leaped delightedly on the big man and rumpled up his hair.

"Bill, at times you are without price!" he cried. "Quick—Frank, you run around and get the buckboard and drive to the southeast corner of the park and wait there. Go on; get! You want to hurry! Come on, Bill, get up your muscle: we'll need you!"

They all trooped out through the bar and disappeared into the night. At about the same instant another individual, to whom Boyd's habits had become accurately known, descended at the edge of town from a ramshackle vegetable wagon and took his leisurely way toward the park. He held his arms folded placidly across his stomach, and in one of his flowing sleeves he carried a 45 Colt's revolver with the barrel sawed off short.

VIII

Arrived at the park, the men sat down to await Patrick Boyd's arrival. There was no reason to conceal themselves; Boyd would have no suspicion; so they merely sat on one of the benches so placed as to give them a view of the corner with the street lamp. After five minutes a dark figure came into view. It was obviously not Boyd, so the Sociedad sat tight. The newcomer, instead of passing, looked up and down the street, and then slipped into the shadow of a cassia, where he waited. This was interesting. The Sociedad sat up and took notice.

"Looks like a hold-up," breathed Corbell to Shot Sheridan.

Big Bill Hunter was stooped over busily unlacing his shoes. He leaned toward his companions.

"Watch me get him," he whispered; and started across the soft grass.

They watched him, fascinated. Here was where Big Bill excelled. An inch at a time he stole forward, without abrupt motions. His huge body seemed to melt from one shadow to another. The shrill chorus of the tree-toads overlaid any slight noises that his movements might have caused. If those sitting on the bench had not seen him start, and had not followed closely his progress, they would not have been able to guess his whereabouts; nor, indeed, to suspect that he existed at all. Certainly the watcher under the cassia bush, his back to his danger, his attention riveted on the street, had no faintest warning. A great black bulk arose silently behind him. There was a muffled cry, as though a rat had squeaked; a brief upheaval; and then the black bulk, considerably augmented, turned toward them openly across the grass.

"Wonderful work, Bill!" they congratulated him. "What you got?"

"Chink," grunted Bill, who was carrying his captive bodily, "hatchet man, I guess. Anyway, he's got a gun. Layin' for some other highbinder, I reckon. Seems to be a popular hold-up ground here."

"Set him down and lets take a look at him," said Corbell.

Shot lighted a match and held it up.

"Sing Toy!" cried someone out of a stupified silence.

"Here comes Boyd," warned Carlson.

They turned down the slanting walk in a close group holding Sing Toy among them. Just outside the light from the street lamp they stopped and allowed the financier to approach. Boyd peered at the group, trying to make them out.

"Ah, gentlemen, good evening;" he recognized them at last. As they occupied the whole of the sidewalk and did not give way he perforce came to a halt.

"We have been waiting for you, Mr. Boyd," said Corbell. "We are driving back to the ranch to-night, and we want you to go with us. There are plenty of pigeons just now."

"Why, that's very kind of you, gentlemen," laughed Boyd, "but you see I am not prepared. I could hardly go at such short notice." He thought them perhaps a little drunk, and so to be humoured.

"We can supply you with all the necessities," continued Corbell, "we must really insist on your accompanying us."

"Well, come over to the house and have a drink, and we'll talk it over," said Boyd. There is no bigger nuisance than an insistent, drunken man.

"You do not understand. You must go with us now."

Boyd looked up in surprise at the tone of Corbell's voice. Big Bill Hunter had edged around behind him, Shot Sheridan and Ravenscroft stood at either elbow; all three big, strong men. Carlson was in the background holding Sing Toy above the elbow: but to Boyd they looked like two more available combatants. He suddenly became deadly serious.

"May I ask you gentlemen what this joke means?" he enquired.

"We will have all the time in the world for explanations later," replied Corbell, "at the present you are to go with us over the mountains. You can go voluntarily and comfortably; or you can refuse and simply be taken. You are a man of common-sense and you realize you will be taken if we choose to take you."

Boyd was silent for several moments.

"I have no idea what this is all about," he snarled at last, "but I warn you, I see no humour in it at all: and I warn you that I shall take steps to see that you regret it. If it's a joke, it is a poor one; if it is intimidation for some purpose I can't even guess at, you've got the wrong man, for I can't be forced; if it is blackmail——"

But at this point Corbell interrupted.

"Come, Mr. Boyd, there is no use in all that. The point is, you are going with us. The rest can wait. But let me, in turn, tell you this; as long as you go peaceably and quietly, you will go comfortably, as you are; but the moment you attempt to struggle or cry out Mr. Hunter will take charge. You say you are not to be frightened by threats; but that is one you would do well to attend."

Without further parley the group moved compactly along the diagonal walk that led across the park. At the farther corner waited Frank Moore with the buckboard and José, Corbell's horse wrangler. He peered at them interestedly as they approached, but said nothing.

"Now, here's the plan," said Corbell. "José will drive you back to the ranch. Bill, you and Shot will occupy the back seat with Mr. Boyd between you. I don't need to tell you what to do. The rest of us will be over by to-morrow evening or next day sometime. We've got to get things moving at this end. I suppose you got a fresh team, José, and some grub?"

"Sure," replied the Mexican.

"All right, you're off. See you later."

No one spoke. Boyd at a signal mounted to the back seat in the buckboard, which presently drove off.

"If you're going to abduct, nothing like having a sensible man to abduct," observed Corbell.

"No trouble, eh?" asked Frank.

"Not a bit. At first he thought we were drunk. Then, when he saw we were in earnest he came along like a lamb."

"Yellow, you think?"

"Not a little bit. Just cool and sensible. I'll bet he's doing a lot of wondering. Well, let's get back to the hotel and see what wires Ken has sent."

"Hold on," interposed Carlson, "what am I to do with this?"

"Hullo, who you got there?" cried Frank.

"Sing Toy; the Colonel's chink; sneaking around with a gun. Oh Lord! I forgot all about him! And he saw it all! We've got to keep him quiet. Bring him along."

IX

They returned to their old gathering place, the little room back of the Fremont bar, Sing Toy paddling contentedly alongside. He seated himself on the edge of a chair, tucked his feet demurely underneath it, and proceeded at once to cross-question his captors.

"What you do with dat man?" he demanded.

"What you do with that gun?" countered Corbell.

"Dat allee light," Sing Toy brushed this minor detail aside. "I wan' know what you do with dat man?"

"Look here, Sing Toy," said Corbell, earnestly. "We no hurt him. We take him across the mountain, keep him one week, two week, bring him back."

"What for?" demanded Sing Toy.

"That our pidgin,"^[1] replied Corbell. "You good friend to us; you say nothing at all to anybody."

"What for you take him?" said Sing Toy.

He looked from one to the other with his beady eyes, but without moving his head.

"Good Lord!" ejaculated Corbell in despair. He knew the Chinese—everyone knew the Chinese in those days—and he recognized the bland persistency that would be neither swerved nor balked. "Look here, Sing Toy," he explained, with an elaborate appearance of patience. "You live long time with the Colonel, good many years."

"Fo'teen year, tlee month," supplied Sing Toy.

"All right. You like Colonel very much?"

Sing Toy nodded, unblinking.

"Well, this man not good friend to Colonel. So we take him over mountains because he do bad pidgin for the Colonel and we want to stop it."

"Aren't you giving this show away too much? He'll get us into trouble if he blabs," interposed Frank swiftly.

"He can get us into just as much trouble with what he saw to-night—if he wants to," Corbell pointed out. "Better let me run this."

Sing Toy waited until this by-play was finished, quite as though he had not understood a word of it.

"We want you to say nothing," continued Corbell. "We no hurt him."

"You kill him, you want to," stated Sing Toy astonishingly. "I no care. I kill him myself, but you go stop me."

They stared at him in blank astonishment.

"Well, I'll be damned!" ejaculated Corbell. "So you were laying for Boyd with that baby cannon of yours, were you? What for you want kill him?"

"Same t'ing. He make bad pidgin for Cunnel."

"What do you know about it."

"Know all 'bout it. My second-uncle he wo'k in bank."

Suddenly Sing Toy became voluble. His monosyllabic style of discourse gave way to a flood of apparently uncorrelated syllables. It did not sound exactly like Chinese. As a matter of fact it was Sing Toy's kind of English produced under excitement. Ravenscroft stared rather wildly. But the others smoked in placid calm. They knew the Chinese, and they were waiting for Sing Toy to run down. When this at length happened, Corbell resumed his catechism. Patiently, by question, he elicited sentence by sentence what the oration had been about. Sing Toy's second uncle seemed to have been possessed of astonishingly particularized information. Sing Toy knew more about the Colonel's affairs, the amount and kind of his paper, and especially all the details of the directors' meeting, including its discussions and the nature of its agreements and resolutions than any man present. The four white men listened with a growing respect.

"So you sorted out your gun and went after him. What you think you make by that?" commented Carlson, when he had finished.

"Eve'ybody say they solly, velly solly. Nobody do nothing at all. Nobody," stated Sing Toy. "I try get money. All China-man know Cunnel. They know he good man, that he pay some time. They jus' soon lend Cunnel money. No can get enough. So I go kill him."

"Sing Toy, you're all right!" cried Carlson warmly.

"What for you take him? What you do with dat man?" Sing Toy returned inexorably to his first question.

Corbell rolled a comical eye at his friends and began painstakingly to explain in words of one syllable. He was cut short.

"I savvy," said Sing Toy. "You got 'nuff money?"

"Well no not quite," confessed Corbell, "but we'll fix that somehow."

"How much you need?"

"Oh, quite a lot."

"How much?"

"Better tell him first as last," laughed Carlson. "He'll never let up on you."

"Thirty thousand dollars," said Corbell.

"All light," agreed Sing Toy, placidly. "I ketch 'um."

"You'll get it? Thirty thousand dollars? Where can you raise that sum?" cried Corbell, with scornful incredulity.

"Chinatown, I ketch 'um."

"But, Sing Toy, you can't take any such sum from your friends on this sort of a thing. The security is not very good."

"You tell me some day he pay him back?" asked Sing Toy.

"Yes, if we can. But we can't be sure—it's very uncertain——"

"All light," interrupted Sing Toy, comfortably. "Cunnel my fliend, you my fliend, all fliends of Chinaman in Chinatown. You say pay him some day. Dat all light. I ketch 'um."

At that moment Kenneth's voice was heard in the barroom enquiring of Barney.

"He's all right," said Corbell, hurriedly. "He's good boy. He's not in this."

"I know. He all light," said Sing Toy; and the men looking on his kind, carved old face confessed to respectful wonder.

In him seemed to be embodied all the mysterious knowledge and wisdom of the Orient.

X

The night drive over the mountains was without especial incident. Boyd disgustedly thought his captors drunk and informed with one of the wild ideas for which they were famous. Another prank for which they would be sorry and very apologetic in the morning. And he would see that they were good and sorry, he thought savagely. It was about time that someone showed this gang of hoodlums that they couldn't break laws and annoy peaceful citizens for their own amusement. There had been too much leniency, too much good-natured tolerance. These were men; not irresponsible boys. It was time they grew up.

With these and similar thoughts did Boyd pass the long, slow journey and keep himself warm in the cool night air of the valley. Nobody uttered a syllable the whole distance. The silence was unbroken except for the creak and rattle of the buckboard, the scrape of the brakes,the strain of the harness, the soft, occasional snorting or blowing of the horses. On either side of Boyd the bulky forms of Bill Hunter and Sheridan were wedged in so tightly that movement was all but impossible. They did not act drunk.

The arrival at Corbell's ranch house was at a little after day-break, that time just before the sun comes over the hill, when the air is shivery, the light gray, and the rose-coloured east is paling rapidly to the clarities of yellow and green. In the half light the men's faces looked gray and fatigued. The flame of Boyd's anger had sunk with his vitality. He had become viciously sullen.

Sheridan and Hunter got out stiffly either side the buckboard.

"We stop here," said Sheridan, briefly.

They went into the central part of the ranch house, and after a moment's hesitation Boyd followed them. Hunter was rapidly constructing a fire in the big fireplace, while Sheridan was fussing with an alcohol coffee machine that stood ready on the side table. Presently the flames were leaping up the chimney. Hunter then went out; and a moment later his huge voice could be heard arousing the Chinese cook.

"We'll have breakfast in a few minutes," he observed, returning. "Better thaw out, Mr. Boyd."

Boyd drew near the grateful warmth. These men were cold sober. The prank, if it was a prank, was not the freak product of whim; it was being carried out deliberately. For what earthly purpose? A bet? That might well be; but in the last analysis this did not seem a convincing solution. These men were wild enough and careless enough of opinion: but they were gentlemen and good sportsmen and not likely to bet in cold blood on a feat that would bring so great a degree of discomfort and inconvenience to an outsider. Nor would it be a funny bet, as it might be were they to kidnap old Major Gaylord, or somebody of like dignity. It seemed more serious, more planned than a joke.

If not a joke, then what the motive? Self-interest. What self-interest, and how was it to be served? Boyd's logical mind attacked these problems one at a time. Leaving for later consideration what the self-interest might be, how could kidnapping him in this fashion further it? Either they would try to intimidate him into some course of action: or they were getting him out of the way for a certain length of time for some purpose. What, then, was the self interest? Boyd had certain definite interests in Arguello County and he ran them over mentally to determine possible points of contact. The real estate transactions were dead and buried; the water rights and works were entirely out of their ken:—it was undoubtedly the matter of the Peyton ranch. The notes were to be handed over in four days——

This lead opened many possibilities—too many to canvass. They might think that by keeping him beyond the appointed time, the deal would fall through; they might have some arrangement to take it over themselves when Boyd failed to complete the transaction; they might hope to force him by threat to some course of action—— Boyd was too tired after his all-night drive to think the thing out to its conclusion. But he felt he was on the right track. Therefore he drew up to the breakfast with a more cheerful countenance. He resented being made the victim of a silly joke. But this!—here was a fight worthy of him. Intimidation? He'd show them that a man who had faced the wolf pack had no fear of them! A more subtle scheme? He had used his wit before. What could these inexperienced back country ranchmen concoct that would be proof against his experience! He eyed Big Bill and Shot with sardonic amusement. Thick-headed watchdogs, these. No use wasting time on them. He had heard Corbell tell them to expect him that evening. There was his real antagonist.

"Well, gentlemen," he remarked, as he drew up his chair. "I assure you I do not know what this is all about, unless you will enlighten me."

"Better wait for Bert—Corbell," mumbled Bill.

"I thought so. But perhaps you can tell me what are my privileges. I am a prisoner?"

"Do anything you please," answered Sheridan. "We'll show you a room, and I'll get you some plunder to make you comfortable. There's plenty of smokes and drinks. You probably want some sleep. You're welcome to move around all you want."

"Around, but not away," suggested Boyd.

"Oh, you're not going to get away," replied Shotwell, grimly. "We're responsible for your appearance this evening; and you're going to appear! It's some few miles to the nearest house—except some of our ranch houses; the country is open; and there will be men on watch. Try to get away, if you think it will amuse you: you have my permission."

"Thanks," returned Boyd dryly, "but I'm too heavy for all that foot work. Besides, I'd rather like to be here this evening. I may have a word to say myself."

"That'll be all right," Shot yawned prodigiously. "Suit yourself. I'm going to turn in for a snooze. Want me to show you where you bunk?"

Corbell's trap drew in about four o'clock, followed shortly by two horsemen. Boyd who had awakened refreshed and was taking a cigar under the big cottonwood trees up the creek, saw them dismount and disappear in the ranch house. He smiled sardonically. The time for a show down had come. They would find with whom they had to deal. He was in no hurry: let them come to him.

But they did not come to him. He finished his cigar; then, making up his mind, he started off briskly down the road. He could make the stage station in about three hours, he figured, provided he was not prevented. Boyd did not really expect to accomplish an escape, but he was grimly amused to determine how much rope he was to be allowed: About a mile down the road he turned off into the sagebrush and across country in the general direction of the stage station. He came to a bare knoll wooded on top. Struck with an idea, he circled this, climbed rapidly on the far side to the summit, and there advanced cautiously through the low growth until he could look back. The rolling countryside lay spread before him, bathed in the yellow light of late afternoon. The scattered oaks and patches of sagebrush stood out with stereoscopic clearness. Boyd scanned very foot carefully. Nothing moved, save strings of cattle sauntering placidly in the direction of water. For ten minutes Boyd lay there waiting for something to appear. Nothing did. Then he arose and walked on briskly. It was incredible, but it actually seemed as though his abandoning of the road had set him free of surveillance: or perhaps the watcher had nodded. At any rate it was too good a chance to lose. And at every moment the chance grew better, for the sun was touching the mountains.

At the end of an hour he came over the edge of a grass hill square upon Bill Hunter seated in the buckboard smoking his pipe.

"Nice day for a walk," said Bill. "Fellow gets farther than he thinks. Thought you might like a lift back. It's getting close to supper time."

Boyd stared. How had the man contrived to intercept him in this uncanny fashion? Never mind that for the present. His eye had noticed the spirited, restless team and an idea had struck him.

"I'm through with your foolishness; and you drive on out of the way. I'm not going with you."

"Oh, yes you are."

"How will you make me?"

Bill surveyed him lazily.

"If this was the wild west," said he. "I'd pull a gun on you and tell you to climb in."

"A lot of attention I'd pay to your gun!" returned Boyd, contemptuously. "I'm not fool enough to think that you mean murder. I'd call your bluff. You wouldn't shoot."

"Oh, I wouldn't mind," said Bill, his voice hardening for a moment. "But we needn't argue that: it ain't necessary. I can handle two of you, and I'll just lift you in like a baby. Want me to show you?"

Boyd grinned triumphantly, and stooped to pick up a handful of the hard adobe.

"The first little move you make toward leaving your seat I'll bombard your horses. I think you'd have your hands full then. Now you drive right on peacefully ahead of me until we get to the stage station. I know something about horses, and I know a few handfuls of this will give you something to manage, even if you were as big as a house."

"Ingenious cuss, ain't you?" observed Bill. "But I was aiming to let Chino hold the horses."

He waved his hand. Boyd whirled to find behind him a stolid carvenfaced dark man.

"Chino is quite an Injin," said Bill, cheerfully. "Say, how did you suppose I happened to meet you here, anyway? You must think I'm a good guesser!" He spoke a few words in Spanish and received a reply. "I was just asking him which way you'd come," he volunteered to Boyd. "That hill is a good place to spy from, all right. You had the right idea there. But you're too green at this sort of thing. You were just watching your back track to see if you were followed, and you saw nothing. Good reason: there was nothing there. Chino was away off your flank all the time." He laughed his great guffaw. "Come on; hop in: it's getting on to sunset."

Boyd climbed aboard without another word, and they drove back to the ranch.

There he was greeted politely, as though nothing had happened. He ate supper in almost complete silence, answering direct questions in monosyllables. After supper he sat four-square and smoked his cigar. He made up his mind to force them to make the first move. That was good strategy. Only they did not make it. All sorts of topics were discussed, as though Boyd were not present at all. At nine o'clock Corbell arose.

"Let's hit the hay," he suggested. "We must all be tired."

And before he knew it, Boyd found himself in his bedroom; as much at sea as ever concerning what it was all about.

Nor did he obtain any more satisfaction when, wearying of the waiting game, he took the offensive. Everybody listened to him; and no one said anything in reply. He warned them that he was not a man tamely to submit to outrage, and they would do well to remember that he intended to carry this matter away through: they inclined their ears sympathetically. He lost his temper and told him what he thought of them; they inclined their ears sympathetically. He argued with them as reasonable beings that his time was valuable, that this joke had gone far enough: they inclined their ears sympathetically. He even accused them boldly of conspiracy in regard to the Peyton ranch, and warned them that they were butting their heads against a stone wall; they inclined their ears sympathetically; but by not one syllable did they indicate whether a single pellet of all his broadsides had reached the mark. And when he had finished, they went right on with everyday matters as though he had not opened his mouth. It was maddening.

They invited him to participate in everything they did—pigeon shooting, riding the ranch, poker parties, and the like. They expressed regret when he declined curtly, but did not press the matter. Apparently he was as free as air, yet several little things happened to show him that he was well and constantly watched. For example, one day Boyd saw from his room window a stranger driving in with one of the white-topped, spring buggies used for light travelling. This seemed an opportunity to place the fact of his captivity duly on record. Boyd threw open the door, only to find himself confronted by the burly forms of Chino and another.

"You go back now," they told him.

At last he fell into a fiercely sullen fit, like a resentful, impotent, teased bear. The very pressure of his ignorance began to make him uneasy. Try as he would he had gained no inkling of what it was all about, nor how long his detention was to last. His mind had swung to the Peyton deal as the pivot of all this; but for the life of him he could not see how he was there vulnerable. Item by item he went over the whole plan. It was copper-riveted! Nevertheless the cumulative effect of the long hours brought him finally to an instinctive, though non-reasoning, uneasiness in regard to it all. Everything was all right, of course; but he wished he could be there and find out. The only possible way these men could put a spoke in his wheel was by purchasing the notes themselves—if the bank would sell to them! Small chance! Boyd knew both their circumstances and their connections; and he was positive they could raise no such amount. How about raising it elsewhere? Remotely, very remotely possible: but it would have to be from some source unknown to Boyd: and his knowledge of their affiliations was pretty complete. Undoubtedly they were doing this melodramatic kidnapping to give themselves time to try to raise the money. If he had to remain captive until that result was achieved, he reflected with grim amusement, he was due for a long visit. But if they did manage to accomplish the miracle of commanding that much credit, it would get them nowhere. Boyd's confidence, after all, rested on the bank. He knew positively his power there. He knew positively that the officials would dare sell to nobody but himself. Let them try it!

Nevertheless, he wished he could call at the bank for five minutes!

XI

About six o'clock one evening at the end of the eighth day, Boyd, pacing up and down the veranda smoking a solitary cigar, saw a horseman draw rein under the big cottonwood at the edge of the road. A moment later Chino stepped from some mysterious concealment. The horseman conversed with him a moment, handed him a letter, and rode off the way he had come, without giving Boyd an opportunity to see who he was. That evening Corbell casually informed him that they would be returning to Arguello the following morning.

They drove back together in Corbell's high trap. Evidently it was no longer considered worth while to guard him. The other members of the Sociedad had vanished; they did not even appear at breakfast. Boyd did not enquire of them; nor did Corbell volunteer any information. As a matter of fact they were already well on toward Arguello, having started on horseback across the short cut trail long before daylight.

The long drive was made almost in silence. Corbell seemed entirely interested and occupied in the tooling of his fine team around the curves and narrow places of the pass; while Boyd remained wrapped in his thoughts. As they struck out on the level road below the grade on the Arguello side, he said:

"I wish to say again, Mr. Corbell, that I consider this whole performance an inexcusable outrage. And I wish to warn you that I shall determine what legal steps are possible and shall pursue them with the ultmost vigour."

"As to that you must suit yourself, Mr. Boyd," rejoined Corbell, gravely. "I can speak for my associates as well as myself in saying that we accept full responsibility before any jury that can be got together in Arguello County." His tone was perfectly polite, but a faint shadow of a smile touched his lips beneath his neat moustache. Confound the fellow, thought Boyd, he knows only too well what to expect of these jay juries! And the thought caused a new surge of anger within him.

No further word was spoken until they approached the edge of town.

"Where can I put you down?" asked Corbell, courteously.

Boyd glanced at his watch. It was after four. The higher officials would have gone home, in accordance with the leisurely custom of the day; but the subordinates would still be at work.

"Leave me at the First National," he said, curtly.

The curtains were drawn, but his rattle of the door brought him speedy admittance. Crosby, the assistant cashier, sat at the big flat desk in the front office.

"How do, Mr. Boyd," he greeted, cheerfully. "Been off on quite a trip!"

"Yes," rejoined Boyd shortly. "Just back. Delayed. Now about that Peyton deal. Sorry not to have been here on the appointed day. Papers all ready?"

"Oh, that's all finished up——"

"Finished up?" repeated Boyd. "What do y'mean!"

"We handed over the papers and got our money yesterday."

Boyd's heavy brows shot together menacingly, and his neck swelled. But Crosby, unconscious of an impending outburst, went on.

"We would have liked your written authorization, naturally," he remarked, with a delicate shade of reproof in his tone, "but of course it was all right. Both Mr. Mills and myself remembered you said that the property was for Kenneth; but we could not recall, nor did the minutes show, whether you wanted the transfer made in his name or in yours. But you can fix it with him of course in any way you please. We told him your absence did not matter: that we could wait until your return, but he seemed anxious to finish it up, so we did so."

Would you mind telling me what you are talking about?" growled Boyd.

"Why our finishing the transaction with Kenneth instead of with you direct," said Crosby, looking up in surprise at the tone, "wasn't that all right?"

Boyd made an effort and about-faced. The surprise was almost too much.

"Perfectly," he managed to say, "but I haven't been home yet. I didn't know he had considered it necessary. You say he has the notes and the transfer of mortgage? Did he pay for them? In full?"

Ten minutes later Boyd left the bank with his chest out and his head up. All the details were not yet clear—as, for example, where Kenneth had raised such a sum of money. But they were only details. Undoubtedly he had used Boyd's credit with Los Angeles banks; or hypothecated securities in the East—it did not matter. The big thing was that Ken had gone to the bat. He had seen the crisis and had acted. That was the kind of a boy to have! Took considerable business judgment to appreciate the importance of action; and a lot of business initiative to carry the thing through! Think they could do up the Boyd clan, did they? Well, they could think again.

At this moment his eye chanced on Herbert Corbell leaning against a lamp post on the corner. So high ran his fierce exultation that Boyd, contrary to his usual instinct, could not forbear triumphing over him. Those eight days of savage repression must be remembered.

"Well, young man," he sneered. "I hope you know by this time that your little scheme has failed."

"I don't know what you mean by that," replied Corbell, looking at him steadily.

"Oh, don't you? Well. I'm sick of all this mystery bluff; and I'm going to tell you to your face. I'm sick of acting the fool; and I'm sick of letting you think you've fooled me at any stage of the game. You got me out of the way so you and your associates could step in and buy the Peyton mortgage. Do you deny that?"

"No, I don't deny that," agreed Corbell, equably.

"Aha, I thought not! Well, you forgot I had a son, didn't you? And a son with a damned good head on his shoulders. I'll bet you had your turn at feeling sick when you found out what he'd done!"

Corbell stared at him a moment; then reached into his inside pocket to produce a thin sheaf of papers.

"Are these," he enquired, blandly, "by any chance what you are talking about?"

1. Pidgin—business.