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Not all at once. He lay silent, with closed eyes, and pieced together
scraps of recollection, here and there, bit by bit. It was like a picture
puzzle; so much so that Jeff quite identified each random memory
with some definite shape, eagerly fitting them together in a frame;
and, when he had adjusted them satisfactorily to a perfect square,
fell peacefully asleep.
 Chapter IV

“Good fellow, thy shooting is good,

An’ if thy heart be as good as thy hand,
Thou art better than Robin Hood.”

—Guy of Gisborne.

WHEN he woke the soft-voiced, white-handed man again sat beside

the bed, again in the same equestrian attitude, clasping the back of
the chair, beaming with good humor.
“And how is our young friend now? Much better, I trust. We have
had a long and refreshing sleep. Is our brain quite clear?”
Here the fat man—the less ill-favored one—rose silently from beside
the fire and left them.
“Our young friend is extremely hungry,” said Jeff. “Our young friend’s
brain is clear, but our young friend’s head is rather sore. Where am
I? In jail?” He sat up and pushed back the bandage for clearer
vision.
The jovial gentleman laughed—a merry and mellow peal. “What a
spirited fellow you are! And what an extremely durable headpiece
you have! A jail? Well, not exactly, my dear fellow, not exactly. Let us
say, in a cache, in a retreat, sometimes used by gentlemen wishing
temporary retirement from society. You are also, though I grieve to
say it, in a jackpot—to use a phrase the precise meaning and origin
of which I do not comprehend, but which seems to be, in the
vernacular, a synonym for the more common word predicament.” He
shook his head sorrowfully. “A very sad predicament, indeed! Quite
unintentionally, and in obedience to a chivalrous impulse—which
does you great credit, I assure you—you have had the misfortune to
mar a very-well-laid plan of mine. Had I not been a quick thinker,
marvelously fertile in expedients, your officiousness would have
placed me in an awkward quandary. However, in the very brief time
at my disposal I was able to hit upon a device equally satisfactory—I
may say even more satisfactory than the original.”
“Hold on!” said Jeff. “I don’t quite keep up. You planned a midnight
assassination which did not go off smoothly. I’ve got that. You were
one of the men in the cab. There was a fight——”
“There was, indeed!” interrupted the genial gentleman. His eyes lit
up with enthusiasm; his shapely fingers tapped the chair-back.
“Such a fight! It was magnificent! Believe me, my dear Bransford, it
inspired me with an almost affectionate admiration for you! And your
opponent was a most redoubtable person, with a sensitive trigger
finger——”
“Excuse the interruption,” said Jeff. “But you seem to have the
advantage of me in the matter of names.”
“So I have, so I have! As you will infer, I looked through your
pockets. Thorpe is my name—S. S. Thorpe. Stay—here is my card.
You will see that I am entitled to the prefix ‘Hon.,’ having been
sometime State Senator. Call me Judge. I have never occupied that
exalted position, but all the boys call me Judge. To go back—we
were speaking of your opponent. Perhaps you knew him? No? Mr.
Broderick, Mr. Oily Broderick, once of San Antonio, a man of some
renown. We shall miss him, Mr. Bransford, we shall miss him! A very
useful fellow! But your eyes ask the question—Dead? Dear me, yes!
Dead and buried these many hours. He never knew what ailed him.
Both of your bullets found a vital spot. A sad loss! But I interrupt. I
am much interested to see how nearly accurate your analysis of the
situation will be.”
“The short man—was he killed, too?” asked Jeff.
“The worthy Krouse was killed as well,” said Judge Thorpe, sighing
with comfortable resignation. “But Krouse was a negligible quantity.
Amiable, but a bungler. Go on!”
“Your intended victim seems to have escaped——”
“Survived,” corrected Judge Thorpe gently, with complacent
inspection of his shapely hands. “Survived is the better word, believe
me. Captain Charles Tillotson, Captain of the Rangers. An estimable
gentleman, with whom, I grieve to say, I was not on the best of
terms. To our political enmity, of long standing—and you perhaps
know that Southwestern politics are extremely bitter—has been
added of late a certain social rivalry. But I digress. You were saying
——”
“But you are prompting me,” said Jeff testily. “It is hardly necessary.
Your enemy not being killed outright, you choose to assassinate his
good name, juggling appearances to make it seem that he was the
murderer—and to that end you have spirited me away.”
“Exactly! You are a man after my own heart—a man of acumen and
discernment,” said Judge Thorpe, beaming, “although I did, as you
suggest, prompt you at some points—knowing that you were not
familiar with all the premises. Really, Mr. Bransford, though I would
not unduly exalt myself, I cannot help but think my little device
showed more than mere talent. It was, considering the agitating
circumstances, considering that both conception and execution had
to be instantaneous, little less than Napoleonic! I feel sure that when
I tell you the details you will share my enthusiasm.”
Jeff was doing some quick thinking. He recalled what he had heard
of Thorpe. He was best known as a powerful and wealthy politician
of El Paso, who in his younger days had been a dangerous
gunfighter. Of late years, however, he had become respected and
reputable, his youthful foibles forgotten.
The appalling frankness of this avowal could bode no good to Jeff.
Evidently he was helplessly in this man’s power, and his life had been
spared for some sinister and shameful purpose.
“Before you favor me with any more details, Judge,” said Jeff, “can’t
you give me an old boot to chew on?”
“What wonderful spirits, what splendid nerves! I compliment you!”
said the Judge. “Our good Mac went, when you first awoke, to
prepare steak, eggs and coffee for you. You will pardon us if we do
not have your meals brought in from a restaurant. It would not do.
We are quiet here, we do not court observation. For the same
reason we have been forced to abstain from medical attendance for
you, otherwise so desirable. I, myself, have filled that office to the
best of my ability. Now as to the replenishing of the inner man. Mac
is an excellent cook.”
“Cleaner than Borrowman,” said Jeff.
“And is, as you observe, much cleaner than Borrowman. He will
prepare whatever the market affords. You have only to ask. And,
while we are waiting, I will return to my story.”
“I was, as you so readily surmised, in the cab, together with my
good friend, colleague and lieutenant, Mr. Sam Patterson. We had
telephoned ahead to Krouse and Broderick that Tillotson was on his
way. We were to be witnesses that Krouse acted purely in self-
defense, you know—as, indeed, were also the cab driver and
Broderick. Broderick was to hold himself in reserve and not to assist,
except in case of mishap. We supposed that Krouse would kill
Tillotson without difficulty. Krouse bungled. He inflicted three
wounds, painful but not dangerous; including one which creased the
scalp and produced unconsciousness.”
The man took such shameless delight in parading his wickedness
that Jeff began to wonder if, after all, it would not have saved
himself much difficulty if Broderick had killed him. But he set his
mind like a flint to thwart this smiling monster at any cost.
The Judge went on: “Such was the distressing situation when I came
up. Some men would have finished Tillotson on the spot. But I kept
my presence of mind; I exercised admirable self-restraint. It would
be but an instant before the aroused neighborhood would be on the
street. We bundled you and your gun into the cab and the driver
hurried you away to a certain rendezvous of ours. To have done with
the driver, I will say at this time that he came in and gave his
testimony the next day very effectively, fully confirming ours;
accounting for his conduct by the very natural excuse that he was
scared and so ran away lest he should be shot.
“The gun in Broderick’s right hand, you may remember, had not
been fired. His stiffening fingers still held it. I picked up his other
gun, unbuckled his belt, buckled it around Tillotson, and dropped
Broderick’s empty gun by him. No more was needed. The populace
found me caring for Captain Tillotson like a brother, pouring whisky
down him—and thereby heaping coals of fire on his head.
“Now, as to our evidence. As you may readily guess, we were driving
by when the trouble began. We saw Captain Tillotson when he fired
the first shot, killing Broderick with it. He continued to shoot after
Broderick dropped; Krouse, defending his friend, was killed also,
wounding Tillotson, who kept on shooting blindly after he fell. The
circumstantial evidence, too, was damning, and bore us out in every
respect. Broderick, a man of deadly quickness, had been killed
before he could shoot. Tillotson had emptied one gun and fired four
shots from the other; his carrying two guns pointed toward
deliberate, fore-planned murder. The marks on the houses, made by
a number of his wild bullets, were in a line directly beyond
Broderick’s body from where Tillotson lay. Broderick was between
you and the others, you know,” explained the Judge parenthetically.
“But as nothing is known of you, the marks of Broderick’s bullets are
supposed to be made by Tillotson’s—incontrovertible evidence that
he began the fighting.”
Nothing could have been more hateful, more revolting, than this
bland, smiling complacency: Jeff’s fingers itched to be at his throat.
It became clear to him that either this man would be his death, or,
which was highly improbable, the other way about. His resolution
hardened; he began to have visions of this smiling face above a
noose.
“When Tillotson regained consciousness he told a most amazing
story, obviously conflicting with the facts. He had carried but one
gun; Krouse had made a wanton attack upon him, without warning;
he had returned the fire. Simultaneously Broderick had been killed
by some fourth man, a stranger, whom Tillotson did not know, and
who had mysteriously disappeared when the people of the
neighborhood arrived. It looks very black for Captain Tillotson,”
purred the Judge, shaking his hands and head sorrowfully. “Even
those who uphold him do not credit this wildly-improbable tale. It is
universally thought that his wealth and position will not save him
from the noose. El Paso is reforming; El Paso is weary of two-gun
men.
“And now, my dear Bransford, comes the crucial point, a matter so
delicate that I hesitate to touch upon it. All of my ingenious little
impromptu was built and founded on the natural hypothesis of your
demise, which, in my haste, I did not stop to verify. It did not occur
to me as among the possibilities that any man—even myself—could
weather six shots, at hand-grips, from Oily Broderick. Imagine, then,
my surprise and chagrin when I learned that you were not even
seriously hurt! It was a shock, I assure you! But here comes Mac
with the tray. I will bathe your hands, Mr. Bransford. Then I beg that
you will fall to at once. We will discourse while you break your fast.”
“Oh, I can get up,” said Jeff. “I’m not hurt. Put it on the table.”
 Chapter V

“Quoth Robin, ‘I dwell by dale and down

By thee I set right naught.’”

—Guy of Gisborne.

“I PERCEIVE,” said the Judge, surveying the tempting viands, “that

Mac has thoughtfully cut your meat for you. You are provided with
many spoons, but neither knife nor fork. A wise and wholesome
precaution, I may remark. After your recent exploit we stand quite in
awe of you. Pray be seated. I will take a cup of coffee with you—if
you will allow me?
“It will not have escaped a man of your penetration that an obvious
course was open to me. But your gallantry had quite won my heart,
and I refrained from that obvious course, though strongly urged to
it. Mac, tell Mr. Bransford what your advice was.”
“I said: ‘Dead men tell no tales!’” replied Mac sturdily. “And I say it
again. Yon is a fearsome man.”
“You are a dangerous man yourself, Mac. Yet I trust you. And why?
Because,” said the Judge cooingly, “I am more dangerous still—
leader by right of the strongest. I admire you, Mr. Bransford; I
needed such a man as you seem to be. Moreover, singular as it may
seem, I boggled at cutting you off in cold blood. I have as good a
heart as can be made out of brains. You had not intentionally
harmed me; I bore you no grudge; it seemed a pity. I decided to
give you a chance. I refused this advice. If you but knew it, Mr.
Bransford, you owe me a heavy debt of gratitude. So we brought
you across quite unostentatiously. That brings us up to date.
“You see the logic of the situation, my dear fellow? Your silence must
be insured. Either you must throw in your lot with us, commit
yourself entirely and irrevocably to us, or suffer the consequences of
—shall we say, your indiscretion?”
The Judge sipped his coffee daintily. “It is distressing even to
mention the alternative; it is needless to lay undue emphasis upon
it; circumstances have already done that. You see for yourself that it
must be thus, and not otherwise.”
Jeff took a toothpick, pushed his chair back and crossed his legs
comfortably. “I must have time to consider the matter and look at it
from all sides,” he said meditatively. “But I can tell you now how it
strikes me at first blush. Do you believe in presentiments, Judge?”
The Judge shook his head. “I am singularly free from all
superstition.”
“Now, I do,” said Jeff steadily, his face wearing as engaging an
expression as its damaged condition would permit. “And I have a
very strong presentiment that I shall see you hung, or perhaps I
should say, hanged.”
The Judge went off in another peal of laughter. Even the saturnine
Mac relaxed to a grim smile. The Judge pounded on the table. “But
what a droll dog it is!” he cried. “Positively, I like you better every
moment. Such high spirits! Such hardihood! Really, we need you, we
must have you. I cannot imagine any one better fitted to fill the
place of the departed brother whom you—as the instrument of an
inscrutable and all-wise Providence—have removed from our midst.”
At this disloyalty to the dead, Jeff’s gorge rose at the man;
treacherous, heartless, revolting. But he kept a tranquil, untroubled
face. The Judge went on: “Your resolution may change. You will
suffer from ennui. I may mention that, should you join us, the
pecuniary reward will be great. I am wealthy and powerful, and our
little organization—informal, but very select—shares my fortunes.
They push me up from below and I pull them up from above. I will
add that we seldom find it necessary to resort to such extreme
measures as we did in the Tillotson case. He was a very troublesome
man; he has been a thorn in my side for years.
“On the contrary, we conduct many open and perfectly-legitimate
enterprises, political, legal, financial. We are interested in mining
propositions; we have cattle ranches in Texas and Old Mexico; we
handle real estate. As side lines, we do a miscellaneous business—
smuggle a vast amount of opium and a few Chinamen, keep
sanctuary for unhappy fugitives, jump good mines and sell poor
ones, furnish or remove witnesses—Oh, many things! But, perhaps,
our greatest activity is simply to exert moral pressure in aid of our
strictly-legitimate enterprises.
“Tut, tut! I have been so charmed that I have overstayed my time.
Think this matter over carefully, my dear fellow. There is much to
gain or to lose. You shall have ample time for consideration. Mac and
Borrowman will get you anything you want, within the bounds of
reason—clothes, books, tobacco, such knickknacks. And, by the way,
here are yesterday’s papers. You may care to read the Tillotson case.
The editorials, both those that condemn him and those that defend,
are particularly amusing.”
“Mac and Borrowman are to be my jailers?” said Jeff.
The Judge raised his hands in expostulation. “Jailers?” he repeated.
“What a harsh term! Let us say, companions. You might break out of
jail,” said the Judge, tapping Jeff’s breast with his strong fingers,
“but you will not get away from me. They will tell you their
instructions. I will attend to your hurts, now, and then I must go.”
“I would like clean clothes,” said Jeff, while the Judge dressed his
wounds skilfully. “A safety razor—they can keep it when I’m not
using it—the daily papers, cigars, tobacco—let me see, what else?
Oh, yes—I was trying to learn the typewriter. I’d like to try it again
when my finger gets better. For books, send in Shakspere’s works
and Carlyle’s ‘French Revolution,’ for the present.”
“You’re quite sure that’s all?” said the Judge, entertained and
delighted. “You must intend to take your time about making up your
mind.”
“My mind is entirely made up now. I would insure you against a
watery death,” said Jeff with utmost calmness, “for a dime!”
“We shall see, we shall see!” said the Judge skeptically. “Time works
many wonders. You will be ennuied! I prophesy it. Besides, I count
upon your gratitude. Good-night!”
“Good-night!”

So you “brought me unostentatiously across,” did you? You made a

slip that time. You talk well, Judge, but you talk too much. Across?
Across the Rio Grande. I am in Juarez. I had already guessed it, for I
hear the sounds of many whistling engines from far off, and but few
from near at hand. My prison is underground, since those whistles
are the only sounds that reach me, and they muffled and indistinct;
coming by the fireplace. That chimney goes through a house above,
since they keep up a fire. What to do?
Through the long hours he lay on his bed, sleepless. When he
opened his eyes, at intervals, it was always to find the guard’s face
toward him, watching him intently. They were taking no chances.
His vigorous brain was busy with the possibilities; contriving,
hopeless as the situation might seem, more than one scheme,
feasible only to desperation, and with terrible odds against success.
These he put by to be used only as a last recourse, and fell to his
Sisyphean task again with such concentration of all his powers upon
the work in hand as few men have ever dreadful need to attain—
such focused concentration that, had his mind been an actual
searchlight, capable, in its turning, to throw a shining circle upon
actual, living, moving men, in all places, far or near, in time past,
present or to come—where it paused, the places, men and events
could not have been more real, more clear, more brightly illumined.
When this inner light wearied and grew faint he turned it back till it
pierced the thick walls to another prison, dwelt on another prisoner
there: a tall, gray figure, whose face was turned away; ringed round
with hate, with ignominy, shame despair and death; not friendless.
And the light rose again, strong and unwavering, ranging the earth
for what help was there; so fell at last upon a plan, not after to be
altered. A rough plan only—the details to be worked out—to-morrow
and to-morrow. So thinking, utter exhaustion came upon him and he
fell asleep.
 Chapter VI

“The bosun’s mate was very sedate, but fond of amusement

too,
So he played hop-scotch with the larboard watch, while the
Captain tickled the crew.”

—Ballad of The Walloping Window Blind.

“AND what are these famous instructions of yours, Mae?”

“They are verra precise, Mr. Bransford. One of us will be always in
the room. That one will keep close and constant watch upon you,
even when you are asleep. Your wound will be dressed only when
we are both here. Coal and water, your meals, the things you send
for, will be brought in only when we are both here. And on any
slightest eendication of an attempted rescue or escape we are to kill
you without hesitation!”
It was plain that Mac was following the manner as well as the matter
of his instructions. He gave this information slowly, with dour
satisfaction, checking each item by forcibly doubling down, with his
right hand, the fingers of his left. Having now doubled them all
down, he undoubled them and began again.
“If you attempt to give any alarm, if you attempt to make any
attack, if on any pretext you try to get near enough for a possible
attack, we will kill you without hesitation.” He rolled the phrase
under his tongue with great relish.
“Your precautions are most flattering, I’m sure,” said Jeff idly. “I
must be very careful. The room is large, but I might inadvertently
break your last rule at any time. If I understand you correctly, should
I so much as drop my pencil and, picking it up, forgetfully come too
close——”
“I will shoot you,” repeated this uncompromising person, “without
any hesitation. I have a verra high opeenion of your powers, Mr.
Bransford, and have no mind to come to grips wi’ you. You will keep
your distance, and we will agree fine.”
“All this is like to be very tiresome to you.” Jeff’s tones were level
and cheerful; he leaned back in his chair, yawning; his hands were
clasped behind his head. “Such constant vigilance will be a strain
upon you; your nerves will be affected. I will have by far the best of
it. I can sleep, read, think. But if you turn your head, if you close
your eyes, if you so much as falter in your attention,” said Jeff
dispassionately, “my fingers will be at your throat to tear your life
out for the dog that you are!”
“Why, now we understand each other perfectly,” returned Mac, in
nowise discomposed. “But I would have ye to observe that your last
remark was highly discourteous. My instructions are not yet ended.
Look now!” He held up his hand, with three fingers still tightly closed
to indicate three several unhesitancies. “Our last instruction was to
treat you with ceeveelity and consideration, to give you any
indulgence which would not endanger your safe keeping, to subject
you to no indignity or abuse.” He folded down the fourth finger and
extended his closed hand, thrusting out his thumb reproachfully. “To
no abuse!” he repeated.
“I am properly rebuked,” said Jeff. “I withdraw the ‘dog.’ Let me
amend the offending remark to read thus: ‘to tear out your life
without any hesitation.’ But even the remarkable foresight of Judge
Thorpe seems to have overlooked one important thing. I refer to the
possible corruption of my jailers. Do I likewise forfeit my life if I
tamper with your integrity?”
His grim guardian chose to consider this query as extremely
facetious. His leathern face wrinkled to cavernous gashes, indicative
of mirth of a rather appalling sort; he emitted a low rumble that
might be construed, in a liberal translation, as laughter; his words
took on a more Scottish twist. “You might try it on Borrowman,” he
said. “Man, you’ve a taking way with you! ’Tis fair against my advice
and sober judgment that ye are here at all—but I am begeening to
feel your fasceenations! Now that ye’re here I e’en have the hope
that ye will be weel advisit. I own it, I would be but loath to feed so
gay and so plain-dealing a man to the feeshes!”
These two had many such skirmishes as the days went by: slow,
dragging days, perpetually lamp-lit, their passage measured only by
the irregularly-changing guards and the regular bringing in of the
daily papers.
Jeff timed his sleeping hours to come on Borrowman’s trick; finding
that jailer dull, ferocious and unendurable. His plan was long since
perfected, and now he awaited but the opportunity of putting it into
execution.
The Judge had called—as a medical adviser, he said—pronounced
Jeff’s progress all that could be desired, and touched upon their
affair with argument, cajolery and airy badinage. Jeff had asked
permission to write to his wife, to send some message, which the
Judge might dictate; any sort of a story, he implored, to keep her
from alarm and anxiety; which petition the Judge put merrily by,
smiling at the absurdity of such request.
In his waking hours Jeff read the papers. Tillotson was mending, his
trial would be soon. He read his books, sometimes aloud; he chaffed
his jailer; he practised on the typewriter, but never, in his practice,
wrote off any appeal for aid to good men and true, or even the
faintest suggestion that a quick move by the enemy would
jeopardize any possible number of gunboats. Instead, Jeff undertook
to produce another “speed sentence.” He called Mac to his
assistance, explaining his wants; and between them, with great glee,
they concocted the following gem:
He kept vexing me with frantic journeys hidden by quiet zeal.
They showed this effusion to the Judge with much pride, defying
him to better it. Jeff pounded it off by the hour; he mingled
fragments of it with his remarks in season and out.
There were long visits from the Judge. In his own despite Jeff grew
to enjoy them and to look forward to them—so strange a thing is
man! The Judge was witty, cynical, informed, polished, keen,
satirical. At times Jeff almost forgot what thing he was besides. Their
talk ranged on many things, always in the end coming back to the
same smiling query, the same unfaltering reply. Once, Patterson
came with him—a younger man, with a brutal and bloated face—and
urged the closing of the incident in clear and unmistakable terms.
And, as day followed day, Jeff let it appear—as a vital part of his
plan—in his speech, his manner, his haggard looks, that danger,
suspense and confinement were telling upon him, that he was
worried and harassed, that he was losing his nerve. These things
appeared slowly, lest he should seem to weaken too soon and too
easily.
 Chapter VII

“And when ’e downs ’is ’ead and ’umps ’is back, ye cawn’t
remain, y’ know!”

—Beresford on the Bronco.

“MY iron-headed friend,” said the Judge—“and I use the word in

more senses than one—you have now had ample time for
deliberation. I have given you the opportunity to choose—life——”
No menace, no violence, could have left an impression so strong, so
dreadful in its finality, as this brief ellipsis, the casual, light-hearted
manner.
“——at no slight risk to myself. Because, the admiration, the liking
which I have professed to you is real and sincere enough, though,
perhaps, none of the deepest. I will be quite frank with you, Mr.
Bransford; that liking, that admiration has grown with our
acquaintance. A weakness; I admit it; it would be with a real regret
that I should speak the word to cut that acquaintance short. I will be
so much further frank with you as to say that I fancy I can
sufficiently steel myself to speak that word should you again refuse
good counsel. This may be the last of our pleasant meetings. For the
last time, in the words of your favorite writer: ‘Under which king,
Bezonian? Speak, or die!’”
Jeff’s hands gripped visibly at his chair-arms, so that the Judge
observed it—as was intended—and smiled. But Jeff gave his answer
quietly: “I can’t do it. If you had killed Tillotson outright I might, to
save my life, keep silence and let you go unpunished. But I can’t do
this.”
“You mean you won’t,” said the Judge acidly.
“I mean that I can’t,” said Jeff. “I would if I could, but I can’t.”
“By Heavens, I believe you will stick to it!” said the Judge, greatly
disappointed. “Had you couched your refusal in some swelling
phrase—and I can think of a dozen sonorous platitudes to fit the
case—I might yet have hopes of you. I believe, sir, that you are a
stubborn fellow. The man is nothing to you!”
“The man is much to me,” returned Jeff. “He is innocent.”
“So, I believe, are you. How will it help him for you to die? And so
obscurely, too! I think,” said the Judge gently, flicking at his cuff,
“that you mentioned a wife? Yes? And children? Two, I think. Two
boys?”
His elbows were upon the table, his white hands were extended
upon the table, he held his head a little to one side and
contemplated his fingers as they played a little tune there, quite as if
it were a piano.
Jeff’s face worked; he rose and paced the floor. Mac, by the door,
regarded him with something very like compassion in his hard face.
The Judge watched him with feline amusement.
When he came back he passed by his chair; he stood beside the
table, resting his fingers lightly on the typewriter frame. “Life is dear
to me,” he said, with a slight break in his voice. “I will make this one
concession. More I will not do. Tillotson’s trial is half over; the
verdict is certain; there are powerful influences at work to insure the
denial of an appeal and to hasten his execution. If you can keep me
here until after his execution I will then—to save my life, for my
wife’s sake, for my children’s sake—keep silence. And may God
forgive me for a compromiser and a coward!” he added with a
groan. “But if, before that, I can make my escape; if, before that, I
can in any way communicate with the outside world, I will denounce
you, at any cost to myself.”
The Judge would have spoken, but Jeff held up his hand. “Wait! I
have listened to you—listen now to me. You have forgotten that
there are two sides to every bargain. You sit directly between me
and Mac, your hands are upon the table, your feet are beneath the
table, the typewriter is at my hand. Do not move! If Mac stirs but an
inch, if you dare raise a finger, until you have agreed to my
proposition, by the God that made me, I will crush your skull like an
egg!”
“Had ye wrung his neck off-hand, as I urgit upon ye frae the first
——” The words came bitterly from Mac, sitting rigid in his corner
—“this wadna have chancit.” His tones conveyed a singular mixture
of melancholy and triumph; the thickening of his Scotch burr
betrayed his agitation. “Be guidit by me noo at the last, Judge, and
tak the daft body’s terms. In my opeenion the project of smashin’
your head wi’ the machine is enteerly pract’ecable, and I think Mr.
Bransford will e’en do it. Why should he no? A dead man has naught
to fear. My gude word is, mak treaty wi’ him and save your——”
“Neck. For this time,” hinted Jeff delicately.
The Judge did not shrink, he did not pale; but neither did he move.
“And your presentiment that you would see me hanged? You have
abandoned that, it seems?”
“Not at all, not at all,” said Jeff, cheerily. “You are going to do just
what I propose. You’d rather take the chance of having your neck
broken legally than the certainty that I’ll break it now.”
“With that thing? Humph! You couldn’t hurt me much with that. I
think I could get up and away before you could hit me with it. And
Mac would certainly shoot you before you could hit me a second
time.”
“Once will be a-plenty.” Bransford laughed. “You go first, I beseech
you, my dear Alphonse! O no, Judge—you don’t think anything of
the kind. If you did you’d try it. Your legs—limbs, I mean of course—
are too far under the table. And I’ve been practising for speed with
this machine every day. What Mac does to me afterward won’t help
you any. You’ll be done dead, damned and delivered. If he could
shoot me now without shooting through you, it would be a different
proposition. Your mistake was in ever letting me line you up. ‘Tit, tat,
toe—Three in a row!’ Well, what are you going to do about it?”
“Oh, man, ye chargit me streectly to keep this wild cat-a-mountain
at his distance,” interrupted Mac in mournful reproach, “and then
pop ye down cheek by jowl wi’ the deil’s buckie your ainsel’. I’d as
lief seat me to sup wi’ the black devil and his muckle pitchfork!”
As often happens in such cases, the man who was in no immediate
danger was more agitated than the one imperiled; who, after a
moment’s reflection, looked up at Bransford with a smile in his eyes.
“And how am I to know you will not denounce me if I let you go
after this unfortunate Tillotson is hanged?” he demanded. “Or, for
that matter, how are you to know that I will not kill you as soon as I
am beyond the reach of your extremely novel weapon—which, I
grant you, might be effective at such close quarters and in such
capable hands—or that I will not have you killed at any time
hereafter? This,” said the Judge, picking his words leisurely and
contemplating his fine fingers with unreserved approval, “is the crux
of the very interesting situation. Rigid moralists, scrutinizing the
varied actions of my life, might find passages not altogether
blameless. But I have always held and maintained that a man should
keep faith where it is expressly pledged. This is the bedrock upon
which is based all relations of man with man, and to no class is it so
needful as to those who are at variance with society. If a man will
not hold by his plighted word, even to his hurt, he has lost all
contact with reality and is become henceforth no actuality, but a vain
and empty simulacrum, not to be dealt with, useless either for good
or evil. Here, for instance, are we, two intelligent men, confronting
mutual instant annihilation; which might be avoided could each be
perfectly sure the other would keep his word! It is quite amusing!”
“I will take your word if you will take mine,” said Jeff. “You should
know who runs the greater risk. But I have a stipulation to make.”
The Judge arched his brows. “A stipulation? Another? My volatile and
resourceful friend, do not ask too much. It is by no means certain
that your extraordinary missile—or was it to be a war-club?—might
not fail of the desired effect. You have already stipulated for your
life, and I think,” said the Judge dryly, “that if you have any other
demand to make, it had best be a modest one.”
“I do not choose,” said Jeff steadily, “that my wife shall suffer
needless anxiety—unneeded if you set me free at last. Still less do I
choose, if I meet with foul play at your hands, or if I should be killed
attempting an escape, to have her haunted by any doubt of me. I
shall write to her that I am in Old Mexico, in some part known to be
dangerous, tempted by high pay. You will send it to be mailed down
there. Then, if I do not come back, she will think of me as honorably
dead, and be at peace.”
It came into the Judge’s active mind that such a letter—dated and
signed from some far-off Mexican town—might, in some
contingencies, be useful to him; his bold, blue eyes, which had faced
an imminent death firmly enough, dropped now to hide the
treacherous thought. And upon this thought, and its influence upon
sending the letter, Jeff had counted from the first.
“There are other reasons,” said Jeff. “You have been pleased to
speak well of me. You have boasted, both for yourself and for me,
enough and more than enough. Let me now boast for myself. Has it
never occurred to you that such a man as I am would have friends—
formidable friends? That they are wondering what has become of
me? If you agree to my arrangement, I have a chance of saving
both my life and some shreds of decency. I do not now want my
friends to come in search of me and get me killed in trying to rescue
me—for you will, of course, redouble your precautions after this.
This letter will put my friends at ease. I will have to trust you to mail
it. That is the weakness of my position. But I will think that there is
a chance that you will mail it—and that chance will help me to keep
a quiet mind. That much, at least, will be a clear gain. Do this, and I
will yield a point to you. If you would rather I didn’t, I will not go to
see you hanged!”
The amazing effrontery of this last coaxing touch so appealed to
Judge Thorpe’s sense of humor that he quite recovered his good
nature. “My dear boy,” he said, “if I should ever be hanged, I
wouldn’t miss having you there for worlds. It would add a zest to the
occasion that I should grieve to lose. I will agree unconditionally to
your proposed modus vivendi. As I understand it, if I can hang
Tillotson you are to keep silence and go free. But if you can contrive
to get me hanged you are to attend the festivity in person? It is a
wager. Write your letter and I’ll mail it. Of course, I’ll have to read it
and edit it if needed. And say—Bransford! I’ll mail it, too! You can be
at rest on that point. In the meantime, I presume, I may move
without bringing the typewriter about my ears?”
“You may,” said Jeff. “It’s a bet. I wish you’d wait and I’ll write the
letter now. She’ll be anxious about me. It’ll take some time. I always
write her long letters. Let me have your fountain-pen, will you?”
“Why don’t you use your typewriter?” said the Judge. “And, by the
way, I fear we shall have to deprive you of your typewriter in the
future.”
“A typewritten letter wouldn’t be consistent at all,” said Jeff. “I am
supposed to be writing from darkest Old Mexico. No typewriters
there. Besides, I can’t write with the damn thing to do any good.
Say, don’t take it away from me, Judge; there’s a good fellow. I want
to master it. I do hate to be beaten.”
“The elasticity with which you adjust yourself to changing conditions
is beyond all praise,” said the Judge, smiling. “Like the other Judge,
in the Bible, I yield to importunity. I can deny you nothing. Keep
your typewriter, then, with the express understanding that its use as
a deadly weapon is barred. Here’s the pen.”
 Chapter VIII

“Alice’s Right Foot, Esq.,

Hearthrug,
Near the Fender,
(With Alice’s love).”

“O, there be many systems

But only one that wins—
When leading from your strongest suit,
Just kick your partner’s shins.”

—Hoyle.

JEFF pulled the paper over and began to scribble madly; pausing
from time to time to glance around for inspiration: at the Judge, at
Mac, at the papers, the books, the typewriter. “I’ll slip in a note for
the kids,” said Jeff. His lips moved, his eyes kindled in his eager
absorption; his face took on a softer and tenderer look. The Judge,
watching him, beamed with almost paternal indulgence.
On the whole Jeff wrote with amazing swiftness for a man who
professed to be unaccustomed to lying. For this communication,
apparently so spontaneous, dashed off by a man hardly yet clear of
the shadow of death, was learned by rote, no syllable
unpremeditated, the very blots of it designed.
This is what he handed the Judge at last:
San Miguel, Chihuahua, March 24.
My dear Wife:
 Since I last wrote you I have been on a long trip into the
Yaqui country as guide, interpreter and friend to a timid
tenderfoot—and all-round sharp from the Smithsonian. His
main lay is Cliff-Dweller-ology, but he does other stunts—
rocks and bugs and Indian languages, and early Spanish
relics.
I get big pay. I enclose you $100——
“A hundred dollars! Why, this is blackmail!” remonstrated the Judge,
grinning nevertheless.
“But,” said Jeff, “I’ve got to send it. She knows I wouldn’t stay away
except for good big pay, and she knows I’ll send the big pay to her. I
didn’t think you were a piker. Why, I had thirty dollars in my pocket.
You won’t be out but seventy. And if you don’t send it she’ll know
the letter is a fake. Besides, she needs the money.”
“I surrender! I’ll send it,” said the Judge, and resumed his reading:
——and will send you more when I get back from next
trip. Going way down in the Sierra Madre this time. Don’t
know when we will hit civilization again, so you needn’t
write till you hear from me.
The Cliff-Dweller-ologist had the El Paso papers sent on
here to him and I am reading them all through while he
writes letters and reports and things. I am reading some
of his books, too.
Mary, I always hated it because I didn’t have a better
education. I used to wonder if you wasn’t sometimes
ashamed of me when we was first married. But I’ve
learned a heap from you and I’ve picked up considerable,
reading, these last few years—and I begin to see that
there are compensations in all things. I see a good deal in
things I read now that I would have missed if I’d just
skimmed over the surface when I was younger. For
instance, I’ve just made the acquaintance of Julius Cæsar
—introduced by my chief.
Say, that’s a great book! And I just know I’m getting more
out of it than if I’d been familiar with it ever since I was a
boy, with stone-bruises on my hoofs. I’ve read it over two
or three times now, and find things every time that I
didn’t quite get before.
It ought to be called Yond Caius Cassius, though.
Shakspere makes Julius out to be a superstitious old
wretch. But Julius had some pretty good hunches at that.
Of course Mark Antony’s wonderful speech at the funeral
was fine business. Gee! how he skinned the “Honorable
men!” Some of the things he said after that will stand
reading, too.
But Yond Cassius, he was the man for my money. He was
a regular go-getter. If Brutus had only hearkened to
Cassius once in a while they’d have made a different play
of it. I didn’t like Brutus near so well. He was a four-
flusher. Said he wouldn’t kill himself and sure enough he
did. He was set up and heady and touchy. I shouldn’t
wonder if he was better than Cassius, just morally. I guess
maybe that’s why Cassius knuckled down to him and
humored him so. But intellectually, and as a man of
action, he wasn’t ace-high to Cassius.
Still there’s no denying that Brutus had a fine line of talk.
There was his farewell to Cassius—you remember that—
and his parting with his other friends.
I’ve been reading Carlyle’s “French Revolution” too. It’s a
little too deep for me, so I take it in small doses. It looks
to me like a great writer could take a page of it and build
a book on it.
Well, that’s all I know. Oh, yes! I tried to learn typewriting
when I was in El Paso—I musn’t forget that. I made up a
sentence with all the letters in it—he kept vexing me by
frantic journeys hidden with quiet zeal—I got so I could
 rattle that off pretty well, but when I tried new stuff I got
balled up.
Will write you when I can. George will know what to do
with the work. Have the boys help him.
Your loving husband,
Jeff.
Dear Kids:
I wish you could see some of the places I saw in the
mountains. We took the train to Casas Grandes and went
with a pack outfit to Durasno and Tarachi, just over the
line into Sonora. That’s one fine country. Had a good time
going and coming, but when we got there and my chief
was snooping around in those musty old underground
cave houses I was bored a-plenty. One day I remember I
lay in camp with nothing to do and read every line of an
old El Paso paper, ads and all.
Leo, you’re getting to be a big boy now. I want you to get
into something better than punching cows. When you get
time you ought to go down to your Uncle Sim’s and make
a start on learning to use a typewriter. I’ve been trying it
myself, but it’s hard for an old dog to learn new tricks.
You and Wesley must both help your mother, and help
George. Do what George tells you—he knows more about
things than you do. Be good kids. I’ll be home just as
soon as I can.
Dad.
“There,” said Jeff, “if there’s anything you want to blue-pencil I’ll
write it over. Anything you want to say suits me so long as it goes.”
“Why, this seems all right,” said the Judge, after reading it. “I have
an envelope in my billbook. Address it, but don’t seal it. You might
attempt to put in some inclosure by sleight-of-hand. If you try any
such trick I shall consider myself absolved from any promise. If you
don’t, I’ll mail it. I always prefer not to lie when I have nothing to
gain by lying. Bless my soul, how you have blotted it!”
“Yes. I’m getting nervous,” said Jeff.
The envelope bore the address:
MRS. JEFF BRANSFORD,
Rainbow South,
Escondido, N. M.

c/o William Beebe.

“Of course you will do as you like,” remonstrated Patterson, later.
“But I shouldn’t send that letter, and I should, without any further
delay, erase Mr. Bransford’s name from the list of living men.”
“Tush!” said the Judge. “The letter is harmless. The man is a
splendid fighter, and has some practical notion of psychology, but
the poor fellow has no imagination. In his eagerness, he made his
letter up on the spur of the moment. There is scarcely a line in it but
was suggested by his surroundings. His haste and affection made
him transparent; I followed the workings of his mind and, except for
personalities, anticipated practically all of it.
“As for killing him, I shall do nothing of the kind. I made a bargain
with him in the very article of death and I shall keep to it. He cannot
escape; it is not possible. Besides, I like the man. Hang it, Patterson,
he is what I would wish my son to be, if I had one. I’ll not kill him
and I’ll send his letter.”
He did send it. It reached Billy Beebe some days later, to his no
small mystification—Jeff Bransford was unmarried. Yet the address
was indubitably in Jeff’s handwriting. Taking Leo Ballinger into
consultation, he carried it unopened to John Wesley Pringle; taking
also a letter for that person, bearing an El Paso postmark many days
earlier than the one for the mysterious Mrs. Bransford. Both had lain
long in the Escondido office before any one passed going to
Rainbow, so the two letters reached there together.
Pringle’s letter was brief:
El Paso, Texas, March 20.
Mr. John Wesley Pringle,
Rainbow, N. M.
Dear Sir:
Your friend, Mr. Jeff Bransford, came here some time since
on some business with Mr. Simon Hibler—whose clerk I
am. Mr. Hibler was on a trip to San Simon, Arizona, and I
did not know exactly when he would return. Mr. Bransford
decided to wait for him. We became great friends and he
rather made his headquarters with me. He told me a great
deal about you.
On the night of March 16th, Mr. Bransford was with me
until almost midnight, when he started for his rooms. So
far as I can learn he has not been seen or heard of since;
his effects are still at his lodgings. He did not take the
street car home. I inquired carefully of all the men.
It is now the fourth day since his disappearance and I am
much distressed. I have lodged information with the police
—but, between you and me, I don’t feel any enthusiasm
about the police.
If you have any knowledge of his whereabouts I wish you
would be so kind as to drop me a line. If you know
nothing, I hope that you and the other friends he spoke of
so often would come down, and I will put myself at your
orders. I am uneasy. As you doubtless know, this is one
awful tough town.
Trusting to hear good news at an early date, I remain,
Yours truly,
Geo. T. Aughinbaugh.
112 Temple Street.
On reading this John Wesley took it upon himself to open the letter
for the non-existent Mrs. Bransford. From that cryptic document they
gathered three things only. First, Jeff was under duress; his letter
was written to pass inspection by hostile eyes. Second, Leo Ballinger
was to visit Uncle Sim and to learn typewriting. Third, George would
tell them what to do. There was no George at Rainbow; Leo’s only
uncle, Simon Hibler, lived in El Paso, his clerk’s name was George.
The inference was plain.
The next day the three friends presented themselves at 112 Temple
Street.
 Chapter IX
“And so these men of Indostan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion
Exceeding stiff and strong.”
SO singular an effect did Mrs. Bransford’s letter have upon Mr.
George Aughinbaugh that he went red and white by turns, and
became incoherent in excited endeavor to say a number of different
things at one and the same time; so that Mr. John Wesley Pringle
was moved to break off in his reading, to push Mr. Aughinbaugh into
a chair, and to administer first aid to the distracted from a leather-
covered bottle.
“Take a sip o’ this. One swallow will make you simmer,” he said
earnestly. “Old Doctor Pringle’s Priceless Prescription, a sovereign
remedy for rattlesnake bites, burns, boils, sprains and bruises, fits,
freckles and housemaid’s sore knee; excellent for chilblains, sunburn,
congestion of the currency, inflammation of the ego, corns,
verbosity, insomnia, sleeplessness, lying awake and bad dreams,
punctuality, fracture of the Decalogue, forgetfulness, painful
memory, congenital pip, the pangs of requited affection, mange,
vivacity, rush of words to the head, old age and lockjaw.
“I know that Jeff is in one big difficulty, and I see that you
understand what his letter means, which is more than I do. Speak
up! Say, state and declare what lies heavy on your mind. Tell us
about it. If you can’t talk make signs.”
Neither this speech nor the restorative served wholly to dispel
Aughinbaugh’s bewilderment. He looked at Mr. Pringle in foggy
confusion, holding fast to the panacea, as if that were the one point
on which he was quite clear. Seeing which, Mr. Pringle, somewhat
exasperated, renewed his eulogy with increased energy and
eloquence. “It is also much used in cases of total depravity,