How's the trial going?" he asked abruptly.

"Pretty fast; the case will go to the jury to-morrow. It won't take them more than ten minutes to reach a verdict. You ought to come in and hear Judge Banks's charge, Aleck. Dan tells me it's sure to be interesting.

He says you never can tell whether Banks will deliver an original poem or make up his charge out of quotations from Shakespeare."

As the banker went up the hill to his home he remembered that he had heard Rutherford Jenkins was in town. To-morrow he must see the man and try again to induce him to consider the dangers of an indictment for conspiracy. At any rate, he would hold that affidavit of Melgares' up his sleeve, and the time might come when it would be efficacious, even should Jenkins still scoff at it now. Conrad--he had given Conrad another warning, as plain as day, and if the man would rush on recklessly he must take the consequences. Jose Gonzalez was still at Socorro Springs--an accident could happen--and there was no time to lose!

Lucy saw her father coming when he was a block away and, instead of running to the gate to meet him, pretended not to have noticed him, and hastened into the house. Louise Dent remained on the veranda, pushing forward a lounging chair for him as he mounted the steps. She saw that he looked paler and more haggard than usual, and she longed to put her arms about him, as a mother might around a suffering child, and charm away his trouble and wretchedness. In her maiden life the innate mother-longing had found little appeas.e.m.e.nt; and so, when this youthful love came into her enriched and mellowed heart of middle life, it gathered into itself the repressed yearning of her nature, and the maternal side of it was strong and fierce. She neither condoned nor belittled the sins of the man she loved. For his wrongdoing and the suffering he had caused she felt sorrow, pity, remorse--remorse almost as keen as if she herself had been the guilty one. But her love enfolded him in spite of his sins, and even included them. For she told herself that if he had not been guilty she might never have known him, their paths might never have crossed.

In gentle, un.o.btrusive ways she ministered to his comfort; then, sitting beside him, her calm brow and steady eyes giving no sign of the tumult in her heart, she talked with sympathy and interest, gradually leading his thoughts away from the present into happy plans for the future. With keen satisfaction she saw the weary, desperate look fade from his face and eyes, giving place to one of comfort and content, and the a.s.surance that she had made him forget his troubles, even for a little while, filled her heart with pleasure.

Lucy, sitting in her room, heard the murmur of their voices through her open windows. Her high spirits of the hour before were gone, and she sat dejected, her face mournful, and her head hanging like a flower broken on its stem. Presently she slipped down to the conservatory, took the pot of cactus Conrad had given her, ran across the back-yard, and threw it over the fence. Then she joined her father and Louise, seating herself on the arm of his chair and throwing her arm around his neck as she asked with loving concern about his welfare, told him he had not been looking well of late, and that he was working too hard and ought to have a rest. But that evening, after dinner, she rushed across the yard and out of the gate, and gathered up the cactus pot in her arms as if it were some small animal she had hurt. She returned it to its place in the conservatory, pressing her hands around it until its spines brought little drops of blood.

"I can't help it!" she exclaimed in a vehement whisper. "I have to like him, and I shan't try any more not to! He wouldn't hurt daddy, I know he wouldn't--because--because he wouldn't--and because--he loves me!" A tiny smile curved her lips as she touched the plant caressingly and presently her whisper went on: "If I could only tell daddy that he needn't be afraid or worried! Oh, I wish I could! But he mustn't guess I know." Her lips ceased moving and she stared unseeingly at the cactus, as her thought slowly took shape: "It's worrying daddy awfully, and I mustn't let it go on any longer. I'll tell Mr. Conrad who Delafield is and he'll stop right then--I know he will. He'll despise us afterward--oh, he won't love me after that!--but--poor daddy! he won't be worried any more."

Bancroft and Miss Dent were alike convinced that his pursuer would be ruthless in the fulfilment of revenge. Arguing from their knowledge of men, their experience of the world, and their observation of his character, each had come to the fixed conclusion that no softening of heart or staying of hand could be expected from him when he knew the truth. Lucy, having neither knowledge of men nor experience of the world to guide her, had not reasoned about the matter at all. She had jumped at once to her conclusion, as soon as she knew her father's ident.i.ty, that he had nothing to fear from Curtis. Her decision was partly due to her own temperament, which she instinctively felt to be somewhat akin to Conrad's, and partly to her knowledge of a side of his character of which Louise knew little and her father still less. It was further strengthened by her intuition that he loved her--something the young man himself had not yet realized. Other than this belief in his love she could have offered no reason for her a.s.surance that he would give over his purpose as soon as he learned to whose door his quest was leading him. But neither her father nor Louise, had it been possible for them to argue with her, could have shaken her conviction.

The next day Bancroft, Conrad, and Pendleton went together to the court-house to see the closing scenes of the Melgares trial. The leading men of the town were there, as well as the usual hangers-on of a court-room, and a few women, both Mexican and American, sat in a little railed s.p.a.ce at one side. Every seat was filled, and a standing line of late comers fringed the walls. Across the room Bancroft saw Rutherford Jenkins. The crowd was disappointed by the judge's charge to the jury, which was brief, simple, and confined to bare statements of law and fact. So it sat still and waited after the jury had filed out, feeling sure that the deliberation would not be long, and that something interesting might be expected afterward from the judge; for he had the reputation of doing and saying whimsical things. He was a bookish man, who studied his law volumes much, but for relaxation turned often to romance and poetry. He had a knack for making jingles himself, and his p.r.o.nouncements from the bench, whether he was charging a jury, calling for order, sentencing a prisoner, or making peace between warring attorneys, were as likely as not to be in rhyme of his own improvisation or in aptly applied quotations from the words of the mighty.

The jury came back presently with a verdict of murder in the first degree. Judge Banks asked the prisoner if he knew of any reason why the court should not sustain the finding of the jury. Melgares said nothing, and Dellmey Baxter, his counsel, who had made the best fight for the Mexican that he could, shook his head; he had given his services, and cared to take no further trouble. All that now stood between the prisoner and the gallows was a little s.p.a.ce of time. The judge looked out of the window into the trembling green depths of the cottonwoods beside the court-house, and for a moment there was silence in the room.

He was a slight man, with dreamy blue eyes, and a square, fine face, framed by side-whiskers, short and thin. It was quite like him to be trying to realize, in that brief moment, just how it would seem to have the gallows looming in one's path so short a way ahead.

He ordered the prisoner to stand. Sheriff Tillinghurst, his usual smile absent from his kindly face, helped Melgares to his feet. The Mexican's wife, who had been seated beside him, drooped forward, her breast shaken with sobs and her lips moving in whispers of prayer.

"Jose Maria Melgares, you have heard the finding of the jury," began the judge, and waited for the sonorous voice of the court interpreter to send the words rolling in musical Spanish over the room, "and it is now necessary for me to p.r.o.nounce upon you the sentence of this court. The rains will soon be here, Jose Maria Melgares, the gra.s.s will spring forth, the flowers bloom, and all the plains and hillsides grow green and luxuriant. But you will not be here to see and enjoy their beauty, Jose Maria Melgares. The rains of Summer, the golden days of October, the storms of Winter, will all alike pa.s.s unknown and unheeded over your head. Spring will come again with its new life, and the lambs will frolic beside their mothers and the little calves bleat in the valleys.

But your eyes will not see the sights, nor your ears hear the sounds, Jose Maria Melgares. It will not matter to you that the skies of New Mexico bend blue and beautiful above your head. The stars will march across the midnight heavens, proclaiming that G.o.d is good, and that He holds the universe in the hollow of His hand. Day after day the sun will rise in his fiery might and blazon forth upon earth and sky the goodness and the glory of the Almighty. The moon will swim across the violet skies of night, wax from slender crescent to fair white disk, and wane again. But to you, Jose Maria Melgares, it will all be as nothing. For you, life is a tale that has been told; there is nothing more for you now, Jose Maria Melgares, save the moral, and even that is no longer of interest to you. For you have been guilty of a heinous crime, Jose Maria Melgares; you have taken the life of your fellow-man, and therefore your life is forfeit. It is the sentence of this court, Jose Maria Melgares, that you be hanged by the neck until dead. And may G.o.d have mercy upon your soul!"

The last melodious syllables of the interpreter's voice resounded through the room, and died in sudden silence. Then the moment's hush was broken by a shriek as Senora Melgares sprang to her feet, stretching her arms out wildly to the judge.

"No, no, Senor Judge! It is not right that my husband should die," she cried out in Spanish. "He was made to steal the mare, and the man who hired him to do it and brought all this trouble upon us--he is the one who should die! There he sits over there! Senor Jenkins, Don Rutherford Jenkins! He is the one who made my husband steal the mare, who gave him money to do it, because he had a grudge against Senor Conrad; and he is the one--"

Sheriff Tillinghurst, his hand on her shoulder, was urging her to sit down, her husband was ordering her to stop, and there was a sudden hubbub all over the room. The judge rapped on his desk and threatened to have the room cleared. Jenkins sat quite still, glaring wrathfully at Bancroft. Conrad clenched his fist, his blue eyes blazing as he exploded an oath into Pendleton's ear; it was his first intimation that the man from Las Vegas had been behind the attempted theft of his mare.

Jenkins was waiting for Bancroft at the door of the bank. "I want to see you at once, in private," he said curtly, and without a word the banker led the way to his office. "A nice trick you played me," Jenkins began, his voice hot and sneering. "I thought of going straight to Conrad; and that's what I ought to have done, to serve you right."

"Well, why didn't you?" Bancroft asked, impa.s.sively.

Jenkins took quick alarm. Had the young ranchman, with his impetuous loyalty, told his friend what had happened in the Albuquerque hotel?

But perhaps Bancroft was only bluffing, in which case he himself could bluff as well as another. "I didn't because I thought it would be the square thing to see you first, and find out if you have any explanation to offer of that woman's performance. Unless you can satisfy me you had nothing to do with it, I shall see Conrad and tell him everything he doesn't know about you before I leave town to-night."

Bancroft reflected. If Jenkins approached Curtis in that young man's present mood there was ample likelihood that the blackmailer would never trouble him again. Yet there was the chance that he might say in time to save himself the word that would stay Conrad's hand. He dared not take the chance.

"I advise you," he said slowly, "if you value a whole skin, not to go near Curt Conrad while he is in the state of mind in which I just left him. As for Senora Melgares, are you crazy enough to suppose I had anything to do with that?"

"It's evident, Bancroft, that you put her up to something you were afraid to do yourself. You wanted to put me in a hole, and you got her to do it for you."

Bancroft made a gesture of annoyance. "Oh, well, if you've got no more _sabe_ than that--" he began, but went on quietly, "I give you my word of honor--"

"The word of honor of Sumner L. Delafield!" Jenkins sneered.

The banker's eyes flashed as he made an impulsive start, but he went on with quiet emphasis: "I give you my word of honor that I knew no more than you what the Melgares woman was going to say when she jumped up.

You ought to see yourself that it would have been to my advantage to keep this knowledge entirely in my own hands."

"Nevertheless," Jenkins replied sullenly, "you could have prevented her outbreak if you'd wanted to; and if there are any legal proceedings started against me because of what she said I expect you and Dell Baxter to stop them at once. And I want you to give me, before I leave this room, a sum of money or a check equal to what I receive on the first of every month. And understand that this has no connection with that payment, which will come on the first of next month, as agreed. It's little enough, after this outrage."

Bancroft glared at his companion for a moment; Jenkins sat up with a defiant look and glared back. The banker turned to his desk and wrote the check without a word. "And the woman's charge?" the other asked threateningly, as he took it.

"If any action is begun I'll do my best to stop it."

Well satisfied with the result, Jenkins hastened down the street, intending to cross over to his hotel at the next bridge and wait in the privacy of his room until train time. As he approached the court-house corner Sheriff Tillinghurst, Little Jack Wilder, Pendleton, and Conrad came out of the building. Curtis saw the hurrying figure, and the light of battle leaped into his eyes. He rushed past the others, and before Jenkins had time to draw his revolver was upon him and had pinioned his arms.

Pendleton ran forward, shouting, "Give it to him, Curt! He deserves it!"

"Jack," smiled the sheriff, "I reckon this is goin' to be a sure good sc.r.a.p, but we don't need to see it. We'd better hike." And they disappeared up the side street.

Jenkins was vainly struggling to reach his hip pocket. Conrad got him down, set one knee on his chest, plucked forth the gun, and threw it to Pendleton. "Now, you d.a.m.ned skunk," he exclaimed, "you're going to get every lick that's coming to you! I won't dirty powder by using my gun on you, but I'm sure going to set the standard for lickings in this town."

And to this day, in the city of Golden, the pummelling that Rutherford Jenkins forthwith received is spoken of as the utmost measure of punishment that a man may take and live. At the end Conrad took the limp body under one arm and carried it to the physician's office. "Here, Doc," he said, "is some work for you. Send the bill to me."

CHAPTER XVIII

PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS

Fourth of July was at hand, and Lucy Bancroft made ready for their stay at the Socorro Springs ranch with a resolve in her heart. Some time during their two days' visit she would tell Curtis Conrad the truth about her father. Of course, many people would be there, and the superintendent would be busy, but she expected to see a good deal of him--he was sure to show her much attention--and it would not be hard to find the few minutes of privacy in which to impart the secret. She was quite sure that the knowledge would bring to a harmless end his long quest of vengeance, and that at once he would cease his pursuit of Delafield. But she was equally sure that he would no longer love her or be friendly with her father. "He can't respect either of us after that,"

she mused. "He'll feel toward us just as he does toward Mr. Baxter; and I can't blame him, for we're worse than Mr. Baxter is." Her heart pleaded eagerly for a little period of grace in which to feel his love and live it, to take delight in his favor and admiration. She need not tell him at the outset.

While Lucy was considering and deciding upon her action, on the morning before the Fourth, Mrs. Ned Castleton was saying to her husband in the privacy of the great, empty plain across which they were taking an early gallop:

"I know why Lena was so willing to come down here with Turner and us.

You'd never guess, Ned."

"Of course I couldn't, Francisquita. So you'll have to tell me."

"I know I shall have to, for you'd never discover it yourself, until too late to do anything about it. She didn't come because she wanted to see the place,--though she's never been here before, you know,--nor because she thought it would be something unusual to do, nor because she cares any more about Turner's affairs than she did last year, nor even because she wanted to keep track of me, nor because--"

"Never mind the didn'ts, f.a.n.n.y! Let's skip ahead to why she did."

"That's just like you, Ned. You never can understand what a flavor it gives to something that really _is_ to consider first all the things that it _isn't_."

"Well, you've had the flavor, now you can give me the fact. I've wondered myself why she was so gracious about coming with us."

"Yes; wasn't it surprising? It puzzled me so that I couldn't give up thinking about it until I solved the mystery."

"And aren't you going to let me into the secret?"

"Of course I am, Ned; that's what I'm doing right now! I studied about it on the way here, and I managed to find out a lot of things it wasn't.