Books: The Long Chance

P >> Peter B. Kyne >> The Long Chance

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"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 assess 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 identity 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 illustrated."

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 document found in
the canteen. Is that satisfactory?"

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

"It's quite a chunk of cash to have on hand, I'll admit. How much can
you give me?"

"Five hundred thousand, and even then I'll have to overdraw my accounts
with three banks."

"I wish my credit was as good as yours, Carey. Your banks will stand
for the overdraft, of course. You'll have to arrange it some other way
if they will not."

"I can't give you a cent over half a million to-day, no matter what you
do" pleaded Carey piteously, and Bob realized that he was speaking the
truth.

"Do not worry, Carey," he replied, "we're going to do business without
getting nasty with each other. I'll take your promissory note, at seven
per cent, and you can secure me with a little mortgage on your Spring-
street-business block. It's worth a million and a half. I am not so
unreasonable as to imagine even a rich man like you can produce a
million dollars cash on such notice, so during the past week I took the
liberty of having the title searched and an instrument of first
mortgage drawn up by myself. All we have to do is to insert the figures
and then you can sign it. I understand you have a notary within hailing
distance. Your own thoughtfulness in having this transfer of my water
right ready for my signature suggested this course to me. It occurred
to me that I could sell this mortgage to any Los Angeles bank."

Carey covered his face with his hands and quivered.

"What bank do you anticipate selling it to?" he mumbled presently.

"I didn't have any particular choice. If you have enemies I will not
sell you into their hands, and you can make the mortgage for as long a
period as you please, up to three years. Give me a list of banks to
keep away from. I don't want to hurt you unnecessarily, I assure you."

"Thank you, McGraw" quavered his victim. "If you'll let me sit at my
desk I'll draw those checks."

"Certainly. Only I want the checks certified, Carey. You understand, of
course, that I shall not surrender the evidence I have against you
until those checks are paid. I will not risk your telephoning the
banks, the moment I leave your office, telling them the checks were
secured by force and threats of bodily harm, and for them to decline
payment."

Carey wrote the checks, called in a clerk and instructed him to take
them to the various banks and arrange for the overdraft and
certification--a comparatively easy task, since Carey was a heavy
stockholder in all three banks. Within half an hour, while Bob and
Carey sat glaring at each other, the checks were returned, and Carey
handed them to Bob, who examined them and found them correct. The
mortgage was next filled out, the notary called in, and Carey signed
and swore to his signature.

"Now, in order to be perfectly legal about this matter, Carey," began
Bob, when the notary had departed, "we should show some consideration
for all this money. I have here the papers showing I have filed on
twenty acres of a mining claim. It's just twenty acres of the Mojave
desert, near San Pasqual, and I do not know that it contains a speck of
valuable mineral, but that is neither here nor there. I staked it as a
mining claim and christened it the Baby Mine."

Here a slight smile flickered across the young Desert Rat's face, as if
some very pleasant thought had preceded it. He continued:

"I have had my signature to this deed to the Baby Mine attested before
a notary a few minutes prior to my arrival in your office." He handed
the document to T. Morgan Carey. "Here's your mine, Carey. I've sold it
to you for a million dollars, and unless you spend one hundred dollars
a year in assessment work, the title to this million-dollar property
will lapse. I wish you luck with your bargain. I shall expect you to
record this deed within three days, and that will block any come-back
you may start figuring on. If you fail to record this deed I shall
construe your act as a breach of faith, return to you all but the five
hundred thousand dollars which belongs to my wife, and then proceed to
make things disagreeable for you. Remember, Carey, I'm your attorney
and you should be guided by my advice."

Carey's face was livid with rage and hatred. "And in addition, I
suppose I'm to forget that you're a stage robber, eh?" He reached for
the telephone. "By the gods, McGraw, I'll take a chance with you after
all. I'm going to fight you."

Bob McGraw drew a large envelope from his pocket. "You may read what
this envelope contains while waiting for central to answer your call"
he said gently. "I snipped the wires while you were hiding your face in
your hands, wondering what you were going to do. These papers are
merely a few affidavits, proving an absolute alibi in the matter of
that Garlock robbery. I was eating frijoles and flapjacks with three
prospectors about fifteen miles south of Olancho at the time this stage
was held up, and I was in Keeler the following morning. This document
contains a statement of the most amazing case of circumstantial
evidence you ever heard of. Its author is the chief of Wells Fargo and
besides, I have queer ideas on the subject of punishment for crime.
Crime, Mr. Carey, is a great deal like our other human ailments, such
as the chicken-pox and tonsilitis. We must bear with it and try to cure
it by gentle care and scientific treatment. Prison cells have never
cured a criminal, and it would only pain me to see you behind the bars
in your old age. And I am certain that my wife would not rejoice at the
news of your hanging."

"I suppose money has nothing to do with the celerity with which you
hasten to compound a felony, eh?" sneered Carey.

"You unfortunate man! Carey, my late friend, Mr. Hennage, used to say
that it was good policy to overlook a losing bet once in a while,
rather than copper everything in sight. Your crime was a terrible
mistake, Carey. For twenty years you've realized that and you've
suffered for it. I'm sorry for you--so sorry that I'm going to use your
ill-gotten gains for a good purpose. Come up into Owens valley three
years from now and I'll prove it to you. Good-day."

"One moment, McGraw. Don't go for a minute or two. I--I'd like to
believe that what you say is true, but the trouble is--you see, McGraw,
I have never encountered your point of view heretofore. Tell me,
McGraw--don't lie to me--do you feel the slightest desire to see me
suffer, or is this--er--brotherly-love talk of yours plain buncombe?"

Bob McGraw advanced toward the man he had beaten. He held out his hand.
"I try to be a man" he said--"to be too big to hate and put myself on a
level with a brute. Won't you shake hands with me?"

Carey regarded him with frank curiosity.

"Say" he said, "are you religious?"

"No. Only human."

"Perhaps" said Carey dubiously, "but it doesn't seem possible that I
should meet two white men in this nigger world. I think the species
became extinct with the death of my friend Hennage."

"_Your_ friend--"

"Why not? He liked me--I know he did. And I liked him. I'm glad he's
dead--no, I'm not--I was glad an hour ago, but I'm sorry now. Had he
lived I would have made of him my friend, for he was the only human
being I have ever met that I could trust implicitly. He was your
partner and he warned me to keep off. He meant it, and I knew he meant
it--so I stayed off. Do you think, McGraw, that I would have let you
beat me out of that land if it hadn't been for Hennage? I didn't dare
rush those selections through for patent until he was dead--and then it
was too late. Had you left your affairs in any other hands I would have
crushed you, but Hennage could not be bought. I didn't even try. He was
above a price."

"Is that why you failed to act immediately after you became convinced
that I was an outlaw and would not dare claim the land when it should
be granted to my clients?" demanded Bob.

Carey nodded. "I met Hennage in Bakersfield, and he told me to keep my
hands off those applications."

"Then he bluffed you, Mr. Carey. Harley P. Hennage was my friend, but
not my partner. He did not have five cents invested in my scheme. I
never mentioned it to him, and neither did my wife. His threat was a
bluff, and where he got his information of my land deal is a mystery,
the solution of which perished with Harley P."

Carey sat in his chair, with his head bowed. He was clasping and
unclasping his fingers in a manner pathetically suggestive of
helplessness.

"I don't understand" he mumbled. "He told me to keep off and I kept
off." He sighed. "I'd have given a million dollars for a friend like
him. I--I--never--had--one."

Bob McGraw drew T. Morgan Carey's mortgage from his pocket, scratched a
match on his trouser-leg and held it under the fluttering leaves.
Slowly the little flame mounted, and when it threatened to scorch his
fingers the promoter of Donnaville tossed the blazing fragments into a
convenient cuspidor. He looked up and saw Carey regarding him
curiously.

"That was your mortgage" the land-grabber said wonderingly. "You have
burned half a million dollars."

"I was selling you my friendship--at cut rates, Mr. Carey. I was worthy
of Hennage's trust and friendship until a few minutes ago. Harley P.
Hennage never did a mean or a cowardly act, and to-day I used my power
over you to extort half a million dollars from you to further a scheme
of mine. I figured that the end justified the means. It did not, and I
ask you to forgive me."

Carey smiled wanly. "It's up-hill work, McGraw, but I'll forgive you.
What great scheme is this of yours that caused you to appear unworthy
of the friend who was so worthy of you? I have a great curiosity to
understand you. Who knows? Perhaps I may end up by liking you?"

And then Bob McGraw sat down by his enemy and unfolded to him his dream
of Donnaville.

"Think of it, Mr. Carey" he pleaded. "Think what my scheme means to the
poor devils who haven't got our brains and power! Think of the women
and little children toiling in sweat-shops; of the families without
money, without hope, without food and without coal, facing the winter
in such cities as Chicago and New York, while a barren empire, which
you and I can transform to an Eden, waits for them there in the north,"
and he waved his arm toward Donnaville.

"There's glory enough for us all, Mr. Carey. Won't you come in with me
and play the big game? Be my backer in this enterprise and let the
future wipe out the mistakes of the past. You've got a chance, Carey.
What need have you for money? It's only a game you're playing, man--
a game that fascinates you. You've sold your manhood for money--and you
have never had a friend! Good God, what a tragedy! Come with me, Carey,
into Owens valley, and be a builder of empire. Let your dead past bury
itself and start fresh again. You are not a young man any longer, and
in all your busy life you have accomplished nothing of benefit to the
world. You have subscribed to charities, and then robbed the objects of
your charity of the land that would have made them independent of you.
Think of the good you can do with the proceeds of the evil you have
done! Ah, Carey, Carey! There's so much fun in just living, and I'm
afraid you've never been young. You've never dreamed! And you've never
had a friend that loved you for what you were. Do you know why, Carey?
Because you weren't worth loving. You have received from the world to
date just what you put into it--envy and greed and hate and malice and
selfishness, and at your passing the curses of your people will be your
portion. Come with me and be a Pagan, my friend, and when you have
finished the job I'll guarantee to plant you up on the slope of
Kearsarge, where your soul, as it mounts to the God of a Square Deal,
can look down on the valley that you have prepared for a happy people,
and say: 'That is mine. I helped create it, and I did it for love. I
finished what the Almighty commenced, and the job was worth while.'
Will you play the game with me, T. Morgan Carey, and get some joy out
of life?"

The land-grabber--the parasite who had lived only to destroy--looked up
at Bob McGraw.

"Would you trust me?" he queried huskily.

"I burned your mortgage" said Bob smiling.

"I'll think it over--friend" Carey replied. "I never do things in a
hurry. It's a habit I have, and I don't quite understand you. I must
think it over."

"Do, Mr. Carey. And now I must toddle along. _Adios._"

Carey shook his hand, and they parted.

Our story is told.

San Pasqual is still a frontier town--a little drearier, a little
shabbier and more down at the heel than when we saw it first. There
have been few changes--the few that have occurred having arrived
unheralded and hence have remained undiscovered. For instance, it is
not generally known that Mrs. Pennycook has lost control of her
husband. Yet, such is the fact. She is still a great stickler for
principle, but she trembles if her husband looks at her. It appears
that Dan Pennycook's half-hearted accusation of Miss Pickett as the
author of the anonymous note found on the body of Boras O'Rourke preyed
on the spinster's mind, and when Bob McGraw started an investigation
she could stand the strain no longer. She fled in terror to the
Pennycook home and made certain demands upon Mrs. Pennycook; who took
refuge in her well-known reputation for probity and principle and
informed Miss Pickett that she was "actin' crazy like"; whereupon Miss
Pickett sought Dan Pennycook and hysterically confessed to the
authorship of that fatal anonymous note, alleging as extenuating
circumstances that she had been aided and abetted therein by Mrs.
Pennycook. To quote a commonplace saying, Mrs. Pennycook had made the
ball and Miss Pickett fired it. She begged Dan Pennycook to use his
influence with Donna to have the investigation quashed, else would Miss
Pickett make a public confession and disgrace the name of Pennycook.

Hence, when Mr. Pennycook appeared at the Hat Ranch and asked Donna to
request her husband to forget about that anonymous letter, Donna
guessed the honest fellow's distress and accordingly the matter was
forgotten by everybody--except Dan Pennycook. He has not forgotten. He
remembers every time he looks at Mr. Hennage's watch. He has never said
anything to Mrs. Pennycook--which makes it all the harder for her--but
contents himself with a queer look at the lady when she becomes
"obstreperous like"--and that suffices. After all, she is the mother of
his children, and God has blessed him with more heart than head.

Miss Pickett is no longer the postmistress; also she is no longer Miss
Pickett, although in this respect she is not unlike a politician who
has all the emoluments of office without the honors, or vice versa if
you will. In her forty-third year she married the only man who ever
asked her--and he was a youth of twenty-five who suspected Miss Pickett
of a savings account. She resigned from the post-office to marry him,
and San Pasqual took a night off to give her a charivari. Two weeks
after the ceremony Miss Pickett's husband, despairing of the savings,
jumped a south-bound freight and was seen no more. Her triumph over the
acquisition of the "Mrs." was so shortlived, and the San Pasqualians
found it so difficult to rid themselves of the habit of calling her
Miss Pickett, that Miss Pickett she remains to this very day.

The Hat Ranch still stands in the desert below San Pasqual. Bob McGraw
has secured title to it, and safe within the old adobe walls Sam Singer
and Soft Wind are rounding out their placid lives. Sam Singer is now
one of the solid citizens of San Pasqual. He has succeeded to the hat
business, and moreover he has money on deposit with Bob McGraw. It
appears that Sam Singer, in accordance with Mr. Hennage's dying
request, fell heir to the gambler's new gaiters. The first time he
tried them on Sam detected a slight obstruction in the toe of the right
gaiter. He removed this obstruction and discovered that it was a piece
of paper money. Like all Indians, Sam was suspicious of paper money, so
he took it to Bob McGraw, who gave him a thousand dollars for it. Sam
Singer was well pleased thereat. He considered he had driven an
excellent bargain.

In the lonely sage-covered wind-swept cemetery at San Pasqual there
rises a black granite monument, severely, plain, eminently befitting
one who was not of the presuming kind. There is an epitaph on that
monument which is worth recording here:

WHO SEEKS FOR HEAVEN ALONE TO SAVE HIS SOUL,
MAY KEEP THE PATH BUT WILL NOT REACH THE GOAL;
WHILE HE WHO WALKS IN LOVE MAY WANDER FAR
YET GOD WILL BRING HIM WHERE THE BLESSED ARE.
BENEATH THIS STONE
HARLEY P. HENNAGE
RESTS FROM HIS WANDERINGS.

One day T. Morgan Carey dropped off the north-bound train at San
Pasqual, and learning that he had two hours to waste while waiting for
the stage to start up country, he was seized with a morbid desire to
wander through San Pasqual's queer cemetery. The only monument in the
cemetery attracted his attention, and presently he found himself
standing at the foot of Mr. Hennage's grave, reading the epitaph. It
impressed him so greatly that he copied the verse in a little morocco-
covered memorandum book.

"I wonder who was the genius that evolved that verse?" he muttered
aloud, and to his great surprise a voice at his side answered him. It
was a woman's voice.

"I do not know the author" she said, "but if you will read Henry Van
Dyke's book 'The Other Wise Man,' you will find that little verse on
the fly-leaf. Perhaps Van Dyke wrote it. I do not know."

T. Morgan Carey turned and lifted his hat. "Thank you, madam" he said.
"I was particularly interested. I had a slight acquaintance with Mr.
Hennage, and it seemed to me that the lines were peculiarly
appropriate."

"My husband and I thought so. And if you will pardon me for suggesting
it, Mr. Carey, it would be--better if you would please leave the
cemetery. An old enemy of yours, a Cahuilla Indian, comes here three
times a week by my orders, to bring water for the blue grass on this
grave. He is coming now."

"Thank you. And you are--"

"I am Donna Corblay."

Carey bowed and continued.

"Your husband told me once that he had some great plans afoot, and did
me the honor to ask me to help him--" he paused, watching her
wistfully--"and I want to know if you object to me as an associate of
your husband in his work."

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