The Delafield Affair Part 25

At the ranch his first inquiry was for Homer. The young man had returned an hour before. Surprised that he was not in beaming evidence, Curtis went in search of him and found him in his own room, bending over his trunk, his belongings scattered about as if a cyclone had been swirling within the four walls.

"Why, Homer," exclaimed Curtis, stopping in astonishment at the door, "what are you doing?"

Homer lifted a dismal face. "I'm packing up. I'm going away."

"Why, lad, what's the matter? I thought--" Curtis stopped, hesitating and embarra.s.sed.

Homer energetically jammed some books into a corner of the trunk, and from its depths took up the unfinished sentence. "Yes; so did I. That is--I hoped. But it wasn't so. She--she says she's never going to leave her father--that he needs her--that she's always going to stay with him."

"Yes," said Curtis, lamely; "I know she's very devoted to him." He stopped; Homer went on with his packing. "I--I suppose, lad," the elder brother stumbled on, in kindly tone, "it hurts now, but--you'll get over it after a while." There was silence again while Homer threw a litter of neckties, collars, and handkerchiefs into his trunk. "I'd like you to stay here all Summer with me," Conrad went on presently, "but if you think you'd be more comfortable somewhere else, it's all right. I understand."

Homer looked up. "I'm going to Denver. I've got a cla.s.smate up there whose father I know will give me a job till college opens next Fall."

Curtis walked out into the corral and leaned upon the gate. Would there be a chance for him, then? Likely not, for she had surely shown more favor to his brother than to him. But he would try. His heart rose at the possibility. Yes, he would try. He looked at his brown, sinewy hands and thought of Lucy's little white ones lying in them. "Thank G.o.d, they're free from blood!" he said to himself with solemn gladness. Then the crimson dyed his face. Even if Lucy cared for him, which he hardly dared to hope, would she marry a man who had so long guided his life by such purposes as he had cherished? "But I'll tell her," he thought with grim determination, "just how b.l.o.o.d.y-minded I've been. It will likely spoil my chance--if I have any--but she must first know just what I am.

I'll tell her all about it, without giving a hint of who the man is that I've followed. And after that--well, I'll feel that I've been square about it, anyway."

The sun was setting, and the whole sky was ablaze with its glory. The fleecy white clouds of two hours before, which had mounted higher and multiplied themselves many times, had become mountains of glowing color, ma.s.ses of sea-sh.e.l.l tints, wide expanses of pink and pearly gray, hearts and beckoning hands of flame. Curtis gazed at the glowing kaleidoscope of the heavens, feeling its gorgeous beauty mingle with the thankfulness that filled his heart. It was good to be done with all those old ideas and feelings and to have come out of it without ruining anybody else's life.

Through the crimson and purple lights and shadows that enveloped the plain he saw Gonzalez galloping up the road, a fine, graceful, centaur-like figure.

"Jose," said Conrad as Gonzalez entered the corral, and his tone struck the Mexican as being unusually gentle, "I know that you spoke the truth to me this morning. But what you told me shall go no further. Mr.

Bancroft shall never know that you told me, and neither he nor anybody else shall suffer harm because of it. There is no longer any need of a feud between you and me, and I wish you would stay and work for me. It isn't every day that I can get hold of a cowboy that knows enough to hit the ground with his hat in three throws."

Jose smiled, and shook his head. "No, Don Curtis. I like you much, and you are a very brave man. You are a braver man than I am. But to-morrow I am going back to Santa Fe."

"Well, then, if you won't stay I'll give you your time whenever you want it. But, I say, Jose, why don't you give up this rattlesnake business?

You're on the level every other way; and you're too good a fellow to discredit all your race with this sort of work when you could be a first-cla.s.s cowboy if you wanted to."

The Mexican looked at him with a wondering smile, shook his head, and went on into the corral. Conrad strolled to the little porch at his front door, stood there a moment watching the sunset colors; then, with his head in the air, went inside and sat down at his desk. He began a letter to Rutherford Jenkins:

"I have found that you told me the truth in that interview we had in your room in the hotel at Albuquerque some months ago. I do not know by what mysterious dispensation of Providence this strange thing happened, but I acknowledge now that it was the truth. I still maintain, however, that my final remark to you on that occasion was absolutely correct.

"I suppose you have been using this information about Mr.

Bancroft's previous life to blackmail him. I advise you to stop it and to let him alone hereafter. If you don't, I tell you right now that you will surely wish you had. I shall take pains to find out whether or not you heed my warning, and if you don't I promise you that you will soon be able to sympathize with a skunk after a cowboy has thrown at it a can of oil and a blazing stick.

"Yours truly, "CURTIS CONRAD."

CHAPTER XXIII

LOVE TO THE RESCUE

A clerk brought the morning mail, and as Alexander Bancroft took the handful of letters, his eye caught the handwriting of Rutherford Jenkins. Apprehension seized him. Had that creature found some new screw he could turn? His hand trembled as he tore open the envelope. For a moment he felt distinct relief when he found nothing more than a demand for additional money. Jenkins reminded him that the first of August was approaching, and added that he was obliged to ask for double the amount he had previously received on the first of the month. The feeling of thankfulness that the letter contained nothing worse pa.s.sed quickly, as he realized that he would be afraid to refuse the demand, that he would not dare to refuse anything Jenkins might ask. The full weight of his chains was upon him, and he swore between set teeth as he tore the letter angrily into bits and dashed them into the waste-basket.

Impotent rebellion was still smouldering in his eyes when a knock came at his door and Dellmey Baxter entered. The Congressman's round, smooth face was beaming and his fat hand grasped Bancroft's with hearty greeting. But the droop of his left eyelid was marked and his gray eyes were cold and hard. They had a prolonged conference about the various enterprises in which they were jointly interested, and about the progress and prospects of Baxter's campaign in the southern part of the Territory, where Bancroft was his chief lieutenant.

"I tell you, Aleck, you're handling it fine," said Baxter finally, with friendly enthusiasm. "You're bringing Silverside and the whole south right into line in great shape! I'm free to say, Aleck, that you're doing better for me than I could do for myself. You have a remarkable knack for handling people, and everybody has confidence in you. We've got the party in this Territory where we want it now, and if I decide to quit Congress after another term or two, as it's likely I shall, I'll see to it, Aleck, that you step into my shoes if you want to." He went on to ask what certain of his supporters and his opponents were doing, and presently inquired:

"And your young friend Conrad--does he still think I have horns and hoofs? He came to see me in Santa Fe recently, and apologized for having accused me of being at the bottom of that Mexican's attack on him. From what he said to me," the Congressman went on, regarding Bancroft attentively, "I think it's likely the greaser will get the worst of it if he keeps up that racket."

The banker moved uneasily, then took cigars from the box on top of his desk. "By the way, Aleck," said Baxter carelessly between whiffs of smoke, "you've been around this Territory considerably and mixed with mining men a good deal." His cold eyes were watching his companion from under their s.h.a.ggy brows. "Do you remember ever running across a chap named Delafield?"

The time had been when Bancroft could hear that name without the quiver of a lash or the tremble of a nerve. But those days of cool self-control and impa.s.sive seeming had gone by. For many weeks he had been on the rack of constant apprehension, the nervous strain of conflicting emotions concerning Conrad had been great, and recently the fear of sudden exposure had grown into a secret, abiding terror. He started, dropped his cigar, and his face paled.

"Delafield?" he repeated in a low voice. "I do not remember the name--and I have a pretty good memory for names, too." The desire seized him to know whether Baxter was speaking out of knowledge or ignorance.

"What about him?" he went on. "Is he supposed to be living here?"

"I don't know much about it," Baxter rejoined, "but I believe the people who are trying to locate him make the guess that he is. A party asked me about him not long ago, but I wasn't able to place the name, although it has a familiar sound. I told him it wasn't any use looking for his man under that name--it's too easy to pick up a new one out here for anybody to keep an old one that's got dirty."

When the door closed upon the portly figure and cherubic smile of the Congressman, Bancroft sat still and stared dully at the wall. "Dell knows," was the conviction that had gone straight to his wretched heart.

"Dell knows. He knows the whole story. And now I've got to do whatever he says." Apprehension leaped quickly forward. If Baxter knew, was the story out? Was it already going from mouth to mouth? Second thought brought rea.s.surance. No; for in that case Baxter would not have so discreetly veiled his hint. But how had he found out? Could Jenkins--no, not likely, for Jenkins was making too good a thing out of it as a secret. Baxter said Conrad had been to see him--then did Curtis know by this time? His heart took quick alarm, and he had a moment of desperation. Then he recalled the young man's repeated declaration that he meant to lose no time in facing Delafield after learning the man's ident.i.ty. He soon decided that a little time was still left to him before that encounter could take place and--Gonzalez was yet at the ranch. Doubtless Conrad had talked with Baxter about the case, perhaps told him of his own search and asked for information about the men he suspected. Finally, knowing well the Congressman's mental habits, he came to the conclusion that Baxter had put things together and made a shrewd guess.

"But he knows, all right," Bancroft owned to himself in impotent anger, "and that means another chain on me." Another obstacle had risen in his path that would have to be overcome, one way or another, before he could reach that longed-for security. A little before, safety had seemed so near, and now it was further away than ever! He should have to fight for it, that was plain--and fight he would, to the last inch, Conrad and Jenkins and Baxter. They had pushed him to the wall, but that should not be the end. He would not let them wreck everything if--no matter now what he might have to do to protect himself.

He spent an anxious forenoon, unable to keep his mind off his own troubles and impending dangers, thinking and scheming, trying to work out effective means of defence and counter-attack. When he left the bank for luncheon at home, it was with a lively sense of how restful and pleasing he should find its atmosphere of love, respect, and confidence.

He bought a box of candy for Lucy and a magazine for Louise, and hastened up the hill.

Never before had home seemed to him so delightful. Lucy was gay of spirit, piquant, rosy of cheek and bright of eye, lovingly solicitous for his comfort. Louise was paler than usual, with a touch of wistfulness in her manner. Lucy explained that she had a bad headache, and they agreed that it was probably due to the day's peculiar atmospheric conditions. It was hot and still; a thin, gray, luminous haze veiled the sky and made the sunshine, usually clear and white, look palely yellow; the air was charged with electricity, whose jangling effect upon the nerves only the soundest could withstand. Louise said she felt it acutely. As always, she was gentle and sympathetic, and Bancroft felt her influence at once. Her presence never failed to soothe, tranquillize, and encourage him.

She saw the anxiety in his eyes, and at once divined a new cause for trouble. With renewed alarm and indignation in her heart her thoughts turned to Conrad. Had there been some new development? The fires of love and solicitude for her friend and of hatred for his enemy were burning brightly in her secret thoughts and shone now and then in her eyes.

Bancroft caught their glow, and his heart rose to be warmed in it. What a sweet woman she was, how adorable! His arms ached with the longing to enfold her and press her dearness to his breast. But no!--with such dangers thickening about him, he must not think of it. It angered him the more that he must thus repress the feeling which was struggling to make itself understood, which he felt certain she would welcome. For half an hour after luncheon they lingered on the veranda. As if drawn irresistibly by secret cords of feeling, Bancroft and Miss Dent kept constantly near each other; once, when she accidentally touched his hand, his fingers closed quickly upon hers in a moment's warm grasp.

After he had gone, Louise walked restlessly up and down, her nerves strung to the highest tension by her love and anxiety for Bancroft and her hatred of Conrad. Her headache grew rapidly worse, and her heart was beating like a trip-hammer. She and Lucy agreed that the electrical condition of the atmosphere had become more trying. The sunshine, too, was more dingily yellowish. They noticed that heavy, dark clouds, like huge, sleeping beasts, were lying behind the summits of the Mogollon Mountains.

"My head is throbbing so I can hardly see," said Louise finally, "and I think I'll go to my room, pull down the shades, and lie down for a while. No; thank you, dear, you can't do anything. Just leave me alone for an hour or two in the quiet and the dark."

Lucy sat on the veranda with the magazine and the box of candy her father had brought; but one lay unopened in her lap and the other untouched on the table beside her, while her eyes wandered across the tree-embowered streets of the town and far over the plain, where, beyond the horizon, were the green groves of the Socorro Springs ranch.

"I've got to do it," she whispered to herself, decision in her wrinkling brow. "There's no other way, and I must. Daddy is looking wretched--I've never seen him look so anxious and disturbed as he does to-day. I've got to do it, right away."

She had not seen Curtis Conrad since the barbecue. Daily had she watched for him, hoping always to see him climbing the hill, longing greatly to look upon his face, and feeling that she must reveal her secret and so put an end, as she firmly believed she could, to her father's trouble.

But he came not; instead, Homer's visits increased in length and frequency, and she, still hurt and angered by the memory of Curtis's attentions to Mrs. Ned Castleton at the barbecue, recklessly continued her flirtation with Homer, plunging him more and more deeply in love.

She did all this without thought of what was going on in Homer's breast, wishing only to dull the pain in her own aching heart. Finally, when she realized what was happening, she changed her demeanor in sudden girl-panic, only to precipitate the young man's proposal, by which she had been both surprised and vexed.

She was quite sure, by this time, that Curtis Conrad did not care for her at all, and she had ceased expecting him to come to their house. Yet she never went out upon the veranda without letting her eyes wander wishfully down the street. They were there now, scanning the long, steep hill. But they saw only a little, bare-legged Mexican boy toiling slowly up the grade. No, she decided, only one thing was left for her to do: she would have to write and ask him to come and see her. Her heart rebelled at first, and she unconsciously tossed her head and her eyes flashed. "But it's for daddy," she presently told herself, "and there's no other way. I've got to do it." Of course, it would be a humiliation; but so was the whole hateful business, and what was one little thing more or less?

Looking toward the street again she saw that the little Mexican lad was coming to her gate. His baggy, ragged overalls were held by a single strap over his shoulder, and his small, brown face, under his miniature, torn sombrero, was hot and dirty. He peered at her through the palings, and she exclaimed, "Why, it's little Pablo Melgares!" She went down to the gate, saying in Spanish, "Do you want anything, Pablo?"

Gravely and silently he gave her a letter he had been carrying in his hat. Although she had seen the handwriting but once before, her heart leaped and a delicious thrill ran through her veins as she read the address.

"Is there an answer?" she asked, tremulously.

"_Si, senorita_," said the boy.

"Then you sit down here on the steps and eat candy until I come back,"

she said as she poured the contents of her box into the child's sombrero.

She ran lightly up the stairs to her room and closed the door before opening the note. It said only: