The Long Chance Part 40

"The court will now listen to any new testimony that may be adduced in the case of The People versus Carey. Fire away, Boston."

"What are you?" panted Carey. "A man or a devil?"

"Just a plain human being, so flat busted, Boston, that I rattle when I walk. What would you suggest to cure me of that horrible ailment?"

"Silence--on both sides--and a hundred thousand for your water right."

"Well, from your point of view, that offer is truly generous. It is now my turn to be surprised at your generosity. But you're shy on imagination, Boston--and I'm--a greedy rascal. You'll have to raise the ante."

"Two hundred thousand."

"Still too low. The power rights alone are worth a million."

"A million, then--you to leave the United States and not return during my lifetime."

Bob laughed. "You don't understand, Boston. Why should I sell you my water right? You must have water on the brain."

"Then, why have you called to see me? Is it blackmail? Why, this interview is degenerating into a ease of the pot calling the kettle black! I'm a fool, McGraw. I shall offer you nothing at all. You can be convicted of stage robbery and you haven't a dollar in the world to make your defense--while I--it takes _evidence_ to convict a man like me."

"Yes, I know your kind. You think you're above the law. I notice, however, that you fear it a little. I sprung a good one on you that time, didn't I, Boston? Imagine the self-possessed T. Morgan Carey practically confessing to a murder on a mere accusation."

He wagged his head at Carey sorrowfully, and continued. "You said a minute ago, Carey, that I had brains. You did not underestimate me. I have. I would not have come to you this morning if I did not have the goods on you. Not much. I don't hold you that cheap, Boston--"

"Don't call me that name" snarled Carey.

"All right, Boston, I won't, since you object. Sit quiet, now, and I'll tell you a very wonderful story--profusely ill.u.s.trated, as the book agents say. It's rather a long story, so please do not interrupt me."

He unrolled the paper which he had taken from his pocket and held it up before his cringing victim. It was an enlargement from a kodak picture of a desert scene. In the foreground lay two human skeletons. Bob picked a pencil off Carey's desk and lightly indicated one of these skeletons.

"That bundle of bones was once Oliver Corblay. Notice those footprints over to the right! See how plainly they loom up in the picture? And over there--see that little message, Bos--I mean, Mr. Carey. It says:

'Friend, look in my canteen and see that I get justice.'

"Behold the friend who looked in the canteen, and who is now here for justice for that skeleton. He's waited twenty years for it, Carey, but he's going to get it to-day. Don't squirm so. You distract my mind from my story.

"Two months ago I was heading up from the Colorado river toward Chuckwalla Tanks. Pa.s.sing the mouth of a box canyon I observed the footprints of a man in some old rotten lava formation. I could tell that the man who made those footprints was dying of thirst when he made them.

He was traveling in circles, every twenty yards, and they always do that toward the finish.

"Well, I hustled up that box canyon with my canteen, hoping I'd arrive in time. Judge of my surprise when I found this heap of bones. I investigated and discovered that owing to the peculiar formation in the box canyon the footprints were practically imperishable. A detailed explanation of the reason why they loom up so white would be interesting, but technical--so let it pa.s.s. Suffice the fact that Oliver Corblay made the same discovery when he drifted into that box canyon twenty years ago, and it gave him an idea. He had a message to leave to posterity and he left it in his empty canteen. However, unless attention could be called to the canteen, the man who found the skeleton would merely bury it and never think of looking in the canteen. So Oliver Corblay wrote that message in the lava; really the most ingenious piece of inlaid work I have ever seen.

"I was the first man to travel that way in twenty years. I read the message in the lava and I looked in the canteen. Here is a copy of the story I found there. The original is in a safe deposit box in San Francisco. It is a diary of a trip which you made with Oliver Corblay and his _mozo_ when you first came out to this country from--well, never mind the name. It seems to annoy you. This diary tells all about the discovery of the Baby Mine, your attack upon him with a stone and your flight with the gold--in fact, a condensed history of that trip right down to the very day he died in that box canyon.

"I was so tremendously interested in that remarkable story, Carey, that as soon as I had refilled my water kegs at Chuckwalla Tanks, I headed south again for Ehrenburg. Here, after much inquiry, I learned from two of the oldest inhabitants that a tenderfoot with a train of four burros had arrived there twenty years ago. They remembered you quite well, because you were so new to the country and so frightened after your experience in the desert. You told a tale of a sandstorm and of having been separated from two Indians you had employed. It seems you lay over in Ehrenburg for a week and put in your time working up a lot of rich ore. You gave a deputy United States marshal five hundred dollars to act as your bodyguard that week, and when your bullion was ready you shipped it by express to the mint in San Francisco. In the express office at Ehrenburg I found a record of that shipment. You shipped it under the name 'T. C. Morgan,' a reversal of your real name.

"From Ehrenburg I made my way back up through Riverside county and across San Bernardino county, to the box canyon. I had purchased a little camera in Ehrenburg, and I fizzled a lot of my films owing to the strong light and the fact that I had to stand on one of my jacks when I took the picture, and the little rascal wouldn't stand still. However, I managed to get one good picture out of the lot, and as you will observe, it all shows up very well in the enlargement.

"I left everything in that box canyon just as I found it. It occurred to me that you might fight and ask to be shown; so might a coroner's jury.

They could get out there in three days with an automobile now. Leaving the box canyon I pushed north to Danby, where I sold my outfit and bought a ticket for San Pasqual, where I arrived just in time to see my friend, Harley P. Hennage, lay down his life in defense of Oliver Corblay's daughter, who, by the way, happens to be my wife.

"If you are not too frightened, Carey, you will readily diagnose my extreme interest in this case. Oliver Corblay left a will, which I shall not bother to file for probate, for the reason that his entire estate consisted of the gold that you stole from him, and it is my intention to secure his estate for his heir without recourse to law. Oliver Corblay's wife is dead, and his daughter, Donna, is my wife and next in succession.

"By consulting the old records of the United States Mint at San Francisco, I discover that on June 2, 18--, a cashier's check was issued to a man named T. C. Morgan, in the sum of $157,432.55, in payment of bullion received. This check was endorsed by T. C. Morgan to Thomas M.

Carey, and deposited by Thomas M. Carey in the Traders National Bank.

"Now, Carey, $157,432.55, at seven per cent per annum, compounded annually for twenty annums, aggregates a heap of money. I wore myself out trying to figure the exact sum, and finally concluded to call it square at half a million. That original sum that you stole from Oliver Corblay gave you your start in the west, and as you are reputed to be worth five or six millions now, I am going to a.s.sess you half a million dollars for my wife--money which justly belongs to her--and another half million for my services as your attorney, wherein I agree to prevail upon my wife not to prosecute you for murder and highway robbery, but to permit you to live on and await the retributive justice that is bound to overtake you. I think this is perfectly fair and square. You have used your money and your power for evil. I am going to use mine for good.

Have the kindness, my dear T. Morgan Carey, to dig me up a million dollars, P. D. Q."

CHAPTER XX

Carey sat huddled dejectedly in his chair. Old age seemed to have descended upon him within the hour; with sagging shoulders, mouth half open in terror, and the wrinkled skin around his thin jaws and the corners of his eyes hanging in greenish-white folds, he looked very tired and very pitiful. Despite his terror, however, he was not yet daunted; for with the picture of _two skeletons_ before him he saw a gleam of hope and tried to fight back.

"Twenty years is a long time, McGraw," he quavered, "and it's hard to trace a man by a mere similarity of names."

"You can be traced through the Traders National, where you banked that check, and your ident.i.ty established beyond a doubt. I can trace your career in this state, step by step, from the day you arrived in it."

Carey smiled--a very weak sickly smile, but bespeaking awakened confidence.

"In the face of which, McGraw, your knowledge of our United States' law will convince you that you cannot convict a man with money enough to fight indefinitely, on such flimsy twenty-year-old evidence found in an abandoned canteen. You cannot identify that skeleton, and you will have to prove that--that--well, you'll have to produce oral testimony, or I'll be given the benefit of the doubt."

"I must prove that the man who killed and robbed Oliver Corblay is T.

Morgan Carey, and not a stranger masquerading under your name, eh? All right, T. Morgan. I told you I had this story profusely ill.u.s.trated."

Bob stepped to the door of the private office which led into the hall.

He opened it and Sam Singer stepped inside. Bob turned to Carey.

"Permit me to present Oliver Corblay's Indian servant, Mr. Carey. He is a little older and more stolid since you saw him last, but his memory--"

Sam Singer moved forward a few feet and glanced sharply at Carey.

"I think he recognizes you in spite of your beard" said Bob sorrowfully, "and I see no reason--"

"Take him away" panted Carey, on the instant that Sam Singer, with a peculiar low guttural cry, sprang upon the land-grabber. Bob came behind the Indian, grasped him by the chin, and with his knee in the small of the Cahuilla's back as a fulcrum, gently pried him away from his victim and held him fast. Carey lay quivering on the floor, and Bob looked down at him.

"Are you satisfied?" he asked.

Carey nodded feebly, and Bob marched Sam Singer to the door, opened it and gently propelled him out into the hall. He locked the door and returned to the desk.

"I knew the sight of two skeletons would hearten you up, Carey, until you'd be as saucy as a badger. But you're as tame as a pet fox now, so let's get down to business. Don't argue with me. I've got you where the hair is short; I want a million dollars, and if I do not get it within half an hour I won't take it at all and I will no longer protect you from that Indian."

Carey climbed back into his chair. "If I accept your terms" he said huskily, "how am I to know that you will keep your word?"

"You will not know it. You'll just have to guess. When you do what I want you to do I will surrender to you the original doc.u.ment found in the canteen. Is that satisfactory?"

"I guess so. But I cannot give you a million dollars on five minutes'