Like a blow at her heart, because of the conviction it brought, the remembrance rushed upon her of an occasion not long after the change of name. She had wakened in the night and, drowsily floating in and out of sleep, had heard s.n.a.t.c.hes of talk between her parents. Something regarding danger to her father had won her attention. He had replied that it would be quite safe, because only when he visited them would he be known as Bancroft, and that henceforth he would probably be able to spend more time with them. Her mother had feared and questioned, but he had rea.s.sured her and insisted that Lucy must be kept more steadily in school and that both mother and daughter must have a settled home. She could not remember all that he said, but meaningful sc.r.a.ps came back which had impressed her because they were concerned with that vague peril which her mother seemed to fear. He had said something about there being "no danger now," "n.o.body would recognize him," "everybody had forgotten it by this time"; finally, her childish anxiety a.s.sured that he was not really in jeopardy, she had sunk back happily into sleep and thought little more about it. After that she and her mother lived part of the time in Denver and part in San Francisco, and her father was with them more than before.

Every recollection that emerged from that dubious past strengthened the fear that had gripped her heart with the reading of the letters. One by one she was forced to give up the suppositions with which she tried to account for her father's possession of those letters. With all her strength she fought against the one evident conclusion. But at last the conviction fell upon her with chill certainty that they were on her father's desk because they were meant for him, and that he was the Sumner L. Delafield of that long past, disgraceful affair.

With hands clenched against her heart, which was aching with the soreness of bruised flesh, she whispered, "To take the money of all those people, and ruin them; and it killed some--oh, daddy, daddy, it was you who did it!" All the world had suddenly become one great, enveloping pain that wrung her heart anew with every recurring realization that her adored father had been so wicked--to her mind so abominably wicked. It was significant of her youth and inexperience, and also of her moral quality, that she did not attempt to palliate or excuse his offence. He was guilty of wrongdoing, as Dellmey Baxter was guilty, but in a far worse measure, and the fact that he was her father would never temper her condemnation of his sin. In the midst of her anguish she grew conscious that her feeling toward him had changed, and knew that the life had gone out of her old honoring, adoring love. It was as if half her heart had been violently torn away. For the first time sobs shook her, as she moaned, "Daddy, daddy, I loved you so!"

Forlorn and anguished, her longing turned back to the dead mother with imperious need of sympathy, understanding, and companionship.

Then came the thought that her mother had known this dreadful truth, and yet had stanchly held by him and shared its consequences. The sense of duty arose within her, trembling, apprehensive, but insistent. It seemed almost as if her mother had bequeathed this secret to her keeping that she might the better fill her place beside him with daughterly solicitude. The idea crystallized into whispered words as she tossed back her head and dried her eyes, "My mother stood by him, and so shall I!"

He must never even suspect that she knew this horrible thing; she felt instinctively that it would cut him to the heart to learn that she had discovered his secret. For a moment she broke down again and moaned, "Why did I go into his office this morning! I wish I hadn't, I wish I hadn't! And then I wouldn't have had to know!" She quickly put aside this useless repining, to face the grim, painful fact once more. No; he must never guess that she knew he was other than he seemed, and he must never feel any change in her manner toward him. She must hide the secret deep, deep down in her heart, and she must keep their mutual life as it had always been. And there was Dearie--but she must know nothing of it; oh, no, never in the world must Dearie learn the least thing about this trouble!

Lucy felt very much alone, quite shut off, in her poignant need, from every one who might give her help, advice, or sympathy. As she sat there, encompa.s.sed by her loneliness and pain, her thoughts turned half unconsciously toward Curtis Conrad with instinctive longing for his protecting care and strength. Then she remembered. With a sharp flash that made her wince it came back to her that he meant to have revenge on Delafield; that she had heard him say he was on the man's trail, and would track him down and kill him! For a moment it staggered her, with a fierce new pain that struck through the keen ache in her breast, making her catch her breath in a gasping sob. But all her heart rose in quick denial. A faint smile held her trembling lip for an instant as she thought:

"Oh, no; he wouldn't! He wouldn't hurt daddy; and he wouldn't kill anybody! I know he wouldn't!"

She almost feared to meet her household; it seemed as if this awful knowledge which had come to her must be writ large upon her countenance.

Would it be possible to take up the daily life again as if nothing had happened? A chasm so horrible had riven it, since the morning, that surely it could never be the same again. But when she finally summoned her resolution and went down to take up her daily duties, she found it not so hard as she had feared. That benign routine of daily, commonplace life, with its hourly demands upon thought and feeling and attention, which has saved so many hearts from breaking, met her at the very door of her room. She quickly learned to lean upon it, even to multiply its demands. At the outset it gave her the strength and courage to pa.s.s through her ordeal steadfastly; and after the first day it was not so hard. She began to feel pity for her father and a new tenderness as she thought of the years through which he had lived, knowing who he was and what he had done, and dreading always to be found out. But all her pity, tenderness, affection, and the old habit of lovingness that she was resolute to sustain were not always sufficient to overcome the revulsion that sometimes seized her.

One of these moments of revolt came to her as they lingered over the breakfast table a few days after her discovery. She made an excuse to attend to something in the kitchen, and hastily left the room. Her father had told them at the table that he was going to Las Vegas that morning. He waited, expecting her to return and go with him to the gate, and wave a last good-bye as he looked back on his way down the hill. She did not reappear, and at last he told Miss Dent that he would have to go or lose his train. Louise watched him from the window with yearning eyes that would not lift themselves from his figure until it disappeared from her view.

As he waited at the station Lucy rushed breathlessly to his side. "I was so afraid I should be too late!" she panted as she slipped her hand through his arm, "I ran all the way down the hill."

She clung so affectionately to him and looked up into his face with an appeal so wistful that he was touched, thinking only that she was sorrowing over his going away. It was the first time he had been separated from her since she had come to make her home with him. The conductor called, "All aboard!" and he kissed her tenderly, saying, "I'll be back day after to-morrow, little daughter."

She went home with that "little daughter" ringing in her ears and her heart. It brought back a wealth of memories of those childish, happy, longed-for times when her father came, so glad to see his "little daughter" that the days were not long enough to hold all the pleasures he wished to give her. It filled her breast with tenderness and a sort of yearning affection, more maternal than filial in quality, and made more ardent her desire to stand by him with perfect loyalty. But the old, joyous love that had been rooted deep in admiration, esteem, and honor no longer stirred within her. She knew that it would never fill her life again with its warmth and gladness, and that now and again she would have to struggle with that same aversion which had sent her that morning to hide herself in her room against his accustomed affectionate farewell. Nevertheless, she was pleased that a returning tide of tenderness, which was almost remorse, had swept over her in time for her to join him at the station.

Lucy's breathless rush to overtake him and the appealing tenderness of her manner during their moment together were sweet thoughts in Bancroft's mind as the train bore him northward. Dear little daughter!

she grew dearer every day, and so did his pride and happiness in her. He longed to give her all the pleasures that his money could buy, just as he used to fill his pockets for her delight when she was a little girl.

Once past these threatening dangers, they should have good times together. All his business enterprises were promising well; it would not be long before money would be plenty. Then, with clear sailing ahead and no ominous clouds, he could ask Louise to marry him.

They would have to give up Lucy some time, but not for many a day. She was the sort of girl that is always attractive to men--why, half the young fellows in Golden were already dancing devoted attendance!--but she was very young; he and Louise still had many years in which to enjoy her, to travel with her and show her the world. Once past these threatening dangers, how fair was the world beyond! He would vanquish them yet, by whatever means might come to his hand! Each day's anxiety for the present and its longing for the fair future made his heart more desperate and reckless. He was hopeful that this coming interview with Rutherford Jenkins would make things easier for him in that quarter.

Money would always keep Jenkins quiet, but to give up money to a blackmailer was like pouring it down a rat hole; if he kept it up the process was sure to cripple him in time.

Jenkins received him with smiling cordiality. "I'm very glad to see you, Mr. Delafield--oh, I beg your pardon!--Mr. Bancroft. I always think of you as--ah, by the other name--and I sometimes forget in speaking."

"You'd better not forget again," Bancroft interposed. "And, speaking of forgetting, there is a little matter concerning you that I'm willing to let drop out of my memory. You know, of course, about the case of Jose Maria Melgares. Doubtless you know, also, how Melgares happened to steal Curtis Conrad's horse; and you could tell to a cent--to a jury, if necessary--how much money was given to Melgares in the rear of the Blue Front saloon to induce him to undertake the theft. I take it, however, that you would not care to have it brought into court, as a conviction on a charge of conspiracy would be sure to follow. I have all the evidence in my possession--quite enough to convict. I got it from Melgares' wife in the first place, and I have since secured his affidavit. But I have stopped her mouth, and his, and n.o.body else knows anything about it. I am quite willing to forget it myself if you will show equal courtesy concerning--certain other matters."

Jenkins grinned and licked his lips. "Really, my dear Mr.

Delafield--excuse me--my dear Mr. Bancroft--I don't know what you are driving at! I suppose you mean that Melgares has been saying that I hired him to steal Conrad's horse. The thing is as false as it is absurd. If it were to come into court I should deny it absolutely, exactly as I do now. And the word of Rutherford Jenkins would stand for considerably more with a jury than that of a Mexican horse-thief."

"You are probably the only man in the Territory, Mr. Jenkins, who holds that opinion. Unless you take a more reasonable view of the matter I shall feel it my duty to see the district attorney as soon as I get home."

"See him, and be d.a.m.ned!" Jenkins broke out. "If you do, Curtis Conrad shall know before the week is out that you are Sumner L. Delafield."

Bancroft's eyes fell, but his reply came quickly enough: "Well, and what is that to me?"

"I guess you know what it will mean to you," Jenkins answered with a sneer. He did not know himself what it would mean to the banker, but he felt sure that it would answer quite as well to make pretence of knowledge. He watched his antagonist furtively in the momentary silence that followed.

"You don't seem to understand the full significance of the att.i.tude you are taking," Bancroft presently went on. "Of course, I do not wish, just now, to have Conrad, or any one else, know all the events of my past life. I have been living an honorable life in this Territory, and you can very well comprehend that I do not wish my reputation and business success smashed--by you or anybody else. That is the only reason why I was willing to enter into an understanding with you. But my affairs are getting in such shape that I can soon snap my fingers at you or any one who tries to disclose my ident.i.ty. At best, you'll be able to get little more out of me, and I am amazed that you should be willing to risk this trial, with its certain disgrace, conviction, and sentence to the penitentiary, for the sake of the few hundred dollars of--blackmail--let us call it by its right name--that you may be able to extort from me."

"I am quite willing to take whatever risk there is," Jenkins interposed, "especially as my counsel could readily bring out the fact that you had tried to--blackmail--let us call it by its right name--to blackmail me before you gave the information. Do as you please about going to the district attorney; I don't care a d.a.m.n whether you do or not. But, if you do, you'll have to settle with Curt Conrad before the week is out!"

Bancroft arose, perceiving acutely that the only course left for him was to make a strong bluff and retreat. "Very well," he said, with an indifference he was far from feeling, "do as you like about that. Only don't delude yourself by supposing that Curt Conrad's knowing about that old affair will mean any more to me than anybody else's knowledge. When you think this proposal of mine over carefully I'm sure you'll change your mind, and I shall expect to hear from you to that effect."

CHAPTER XVII

SENTENCE OF DEATH

As the Spring days pa.s.sed, in unbroken procession of rosy dawns, cloudless and glowing noons, and gorgeous sunsets, Louise Dent's resentment against Curtis Conrad grew keen and bitter. She saw the lines of worry appearing in Bancroft's face, and surprised now and then in his eyes an anxious abstraction; and in her heart she stormed against the man she supposed to be the sole cause of it all. Dreading his next visit lest she might betray her feeling, she longed to drive him from the house, when he should come, with burning, shaming words. But Bancroft, who knew as much of his intention as she did, was on terms of cordial friendship with him, and she must take her cue from her friend and host.

Toward Bancroft himself her heart grew more tenderly solicitous as her womanly instincts divined his feeling toward her. A thousand unconscious touches of tone and manner had already revealed his love, and she surmised that he would not speak because of the imminence of this sore danger. She longed to give him her open sympathy, to counsel with him, to lock hands with him so that they might face the trouble together. Yet she was stopped from word or action by the necessity of seeming to know nothing. The fact of Bancroft's ident.i.ty had been disclosed to her by his wife, her dear and intimate friend, who, at point of death, had told her, under solemn promise of secrecy, the whole story, that she might the better shield Lucy should disclosure ever threaten. Now, her heart melting with pity, love, and sympathy for her friend, and burning with angry resentment against his foe, she must perforce sit in apparent ignorance of it all, be calm and cheerful toward Bancroft, and smile pleased welcome upon Conrad. That hidden volcano in her breast, whose possibility Lucy and Curtis had half seriously discussed, had become a reality, and the concealment of it demanded all her self-control.

The only relief she dared give herself was occasional disapproval of the young cattleman in her talks with Lucy. Louise was surprised and puzzled by the varying moods in which the girl received these criticisms.

Sometimes she kept silence or quickly changed the subject. Rarely she tossed her head and joined in the condemnation with an angry sparkle of the eye. Or, again, with flushing cheek, she defended him from Miss Dent's aspersions. Louise decided, with a fond smile, that her vagaries of mood were due to pique at the lack of more constant attentions from Conrad. For the young woman, to her father's and Miss Dent's loving amus.e.m.e.nt, was proving herself adept in the art of queening it over a court of masculine admirers. What with walks over the _mesa_, rides and picnics up the canyon, music of evenings, and Sunday afternoon calls, Lucy was leading a gay life, and Louise, as her chaperon, a busy one.

Being a normal, buoyant-hearted girl, Lucy enjoyed the gayety and the attention and admiration showered upon her in such copious measure for their own sake, and she was glad of them also because, together with her household cares, they kept her too well occupied for sad thoughts.

So the days pa.s.sed until mid-June was at hand and the time come for the trial of Jose Maria Melgares. Curtis Conrad was in Golden as one of the princ.i.p.al witnesses for the prosecution--his first visit to the town since the Spring round-up. Lucy, glancing frequently down the street, was trying to interest herself in Miss Dent's conversation as they sat together on the veranda. They spoke of the trial, and Lucy said she had seen Mr. Conrad on his way to the court-house when she went down town to market.

"I've been disappointed in Mr. Conrad," said Louise; "I don't understand how he can talk so recklessly about people needing to be killed. To me it is very repellent. You know how he speaks about Mr. Baxter."

Lucy's head went up. "But Mr. Baxter is a very bad man!" she exclaimed.

"He has been responsible for a great deal of suffering. Just think of Melgares and his poor wife! But for Mr. Baxter they might still be living happily on their little ranch. And he's done many other things just as wicked and unjust. Oh, he's a very bad man, and I can't blame Mr. Conrad for feeling that way about him." She broke off, flushing to her brows, then went on more quietly: "But I don't think, Dearie, that Mr. Conrad means half he says when he talks that way; it's just his way of feeling how brave he is."

"If he does not mean it, he should not speak so recklessly of serious matters," Louise responded with decision. "He must have a cruel nature, or he would not harbor such ideas."

Lucy leaned forward, her face aglow. "Indeed, no, Dearie! Mr. Conrad isn't cruel; he's really very tender-hearted--just think of the way he carried that wounded bird all the way to Golden to have its leg fixed.

And one day when we were walking on the _mesa_, he was so distressed because he accidentally stepped on a little horned toad. It's unjust to call him cruel, Dearie!"

Her glance darted down the street again, and she saw Curtis nearing her gate. His quick, energetic stride and eager face were like a trumpet call to her youth and her womanhood. Forgetting all but the fact of his presence, she felt her heart leap to meet him with joyful welcome. But instantly came remembrance and reaction, and she greeted him with unusual gravity of manner.

Conrad wanted them at the ranch for the Fourth of July. "We are to have a big barbecue and _baile_," he said. "Both the Castletons are coming this year to look things over, and I wrote Ned that if Mrs. Ned was coming with him perhaps it would amuse her if we did something of the sort. The idea seemed to just strike his gait, and he wrote back at once to go ahead and whoop it up for all I'm worth. Mrs. Ned and Mrs. Turner are both coming, and I'm asking a lot of people from all over the Territory. I want you two ladies and Mr. Bancroft to be sure to come out the day before the Fourth and stay at least until the day after, and as much longer as you find convenient. My brother Homer is coming on next week for the rest of the Summer, and he'll be there too."

Lucy was delighted, clapped her hands, and declared it would be great fun--of course they would go. Repugnant to the idea but knowing that only one course was seemly, Miss Dent gave smiling acquiescence. As they talked, Curtis telling them of the great wealth of the Castleton brothers, the rivalry of the two ladies, the dash and beauty and vogue of Mrs. Turner, and the Spanish ancestry of Mrs. Ned, Lucy's eyes continually sought his face. Her spirits began to rise, and soon they were gayly tilting at each other after their usual custom, she all smiles and dimples and animation, and he beaming with admiration. They went to the conservatory to see the tanager and presently brought it back with them, telling Miss Dent that they were going to set it free.

Lucy stood beside him as they watched it soar away through the sunlight, a flash of silvery pink flame, and it seemed to her that their mutual interest in the little creature had made a bond between them and given her an understanding of his character deeper and truer than any one else could have.

Conrad went down the hill, whistling softly a merry little tune, his thoughts dwelling tenderly upon Lucy. He wished her to enjoy the barbecue and _baile_ even more than she expected--it was to be her first experience of that sort--and he began to plan little details that might add to her pleasure. So absorbed was he and so pleasant his thoughts that for a time he quite forgot the Delafield affair. But it came to mind again when Bancroft asked him, as they talked together at the door of the bank, if he had had any more trouble with Jose Gonzalez.

"Oh, no; Jose's all right. He's the best cowboy I've got and as docile as a yearling. He's agreed to stay right on at the ranch with me. I'm glad to have such a smart, competent fellow to leave under Peters, for after the Fourth I expect to be away a good deal. I'll have some time for myself then and I'm going into this hunt after Delafield for all I'm worth; I don't think it will take me long to run him down now."

Bancroft hesitated a moment, then, laying his hand on Conrad's arm he spoke earnestly: "For G.o.d's sake, Curt, give up this fool notion of yours. If you don't, you'll never get through alive. No sane man is going to let you get the drop on him, as you seem to think you can. He's undoubtedly watching you right along, ready to put an end to the business as soon as he thinks you're really dangerous. Let him pay you if he will; but stop this foolishness."

Conrad laughed heartily and slapped Bancroft's shoulder. "Why, Aleck,"

said he, "the most satisfaction I've ever had comes out of knowing that I'm so hot on his tracks that I've got him buffaloed. Give it up? Not much! I'm going to lope down that trail at a two-minute gait, and Sumner L. Delafield is mighty soon going to wish he'd never been born."

Bancroft turned half away, with a tightening of his lips under his brown moustache. "Very well. I'll not trouble you with any more advice on the subject. But when you meet with disaster, as you undoubtedly will, you must remember that you've got n.o.body but yourself to blame.