The Son of his Father

"GORDON.

"P.S. – It occurs to me I have not told you all the news I would have liked to tell you. But two pieces occur to me at the moment. First, that achievement in life demands not the fostering of the gentler human emotions, but their outraging. Also, no man has the right to abandon honesty until dishonesty pays him better.

"G."

The mother's sigh was a deep expression of her hopeless feelings as she finished the last word of her son's postscript.

Gracie watched her out of the corners of her eyes.

"What's the matter, momma?" she inquired.

Her mother broke down weakly.

"They haven't found a trace of him yet. They can't locate how these letters are mailed. They can't just find a thing. And all the time these letters come along, and – and they get worse and worse. It's no good, Gracie; the poor boy's just crazy. Sure as sure. It's the heat, or – or drink, or strain, or – maybe he's starving. Anyway, he's gone, and we'll never see our Gordon again – not in his right mind. And now your poor father's gone, too. Goodness knows where. I'll – yes, I'll have to set the inquiry people to find him, too, if – if I don't hear from him soon. To – to think I'd have lived to see the day when – "

"I don't guess Gordon's in any sort of trouble, momma," cried Gracie, displaying an unexpected sympathy for her distracted parent. Then she smiled that wise little superior smile of youth which made her strong features almost pretty. "And I'm sure he's not – crazy. Say, mom, just don't think anything more about it. And I'd sort of keep all those letters – if they're like that. You never told me the others. May I read them? I never would have believed Gordon could have written like that – never. You see, Gordon's not very bright – is he?"

CHAPTER XIX

JAMES CARBHOY ARRIVES

Snake's Fall was in that sensitive state when the least jar or news of a startling nature was calculated to upset it, and start its tide of human emotions bubbling and surging like a shallow stream whose course has been obstructed by the sudden fall of a bowlder into its bed.

Early the following morning just such a metaphorical bowlder fell right into the middle of the Snake's Fall stream. The news flew through the little town, now so crowded with its overflowing population of speculators, with that celerity which vital news ever attains in small, and even large places. It was on everybody's lips before the breakfast tables were cleared. And, in a matter of seconds, from the moment of its penetration to the individual, minds were searching not only the meaning, but the effect it would have upon the general situation, and their own personal affairs in particular.

David Slosson, the agent of the Union Grayling and Ukataw Railroad, had defected in the night! He had gone – bolted – leaving his bill unpaid at McSwain's hotel!

For a while a sort of paralysis seized upon the population. It was staggered. No trains had passed through in the night. Not even a local freight train. How had he gone? But most of all – why?

The next bit of news that came through was that Peter's best team had been stolen from the barn, also an empty hay-rack. This was mystifying, until it became known that Peter's buggy was laid up at Mike Callahan's barn, undergoing repairs. The hayrack was the only vehicle available. But what about saddle horses for a rapid bolt? Curiously enough it was discovered that Peter's saddle horses were out grazing. Besides, the story added that the man had taken his baggage with him. Not a thing had been left behind, and baggage like his could not have been carried on a saddle horse.

The story grew as it traveled. It was the snowball over again. It was said that Peter had been robbed of a large amount of money which he kept in his safe. Also his cash register had been emptied. An added item was that Peter himself had been knifed, and had been found in a dying condition. In fact every conceivable variation of the facts were flung abroad for the benefit of credulous ears. Consequently the tide of curious, and startled, and interested news-seekers set in the direction of Peter's hotel at an early hour.

Then it was that something of the real facts were discovered. And, in consequence, those who had participated in Slosson's land deals, and had received deposit money, congratulated themselves. While those who had not so profited felt like "kicking" themselves for their want of enterprise.

Peter stormed through his house the whole morning. He was like a very hot and angry lion in a cage far too small for it. His story, as he told it in the office, was superlative in furious adjectives.

"I tell you fellows," he cried, at a group of wondering-eyed boarders in his establishment, "I ha'f suspected he was a blamed crook from the first moment I got my eyeballs onto him. The feller that 'll bilk his board bill is come mighty low, sirs. So mighty low you wouldn't find a well deep enough for him. He had the best rooms in the house at four an' a ha'f dollars a day all in, an' I ain't see a fi' cent piece of his money, cep' you ken count the land deposit he paid me. I just been right through his rooms, an' he ain't left a thing, not a valise, nor a grip. Not even a soot of pyjamas, or a soap tablet. He's sure cleared right out fer good, and we ain't goin' to see him round again," he finished up gloomily.

Then his fire broke out again.

"But that ain't what I'm grievin' most, I guess. Ther's allus skunks around till a place gets civilized up, an' their bokay ain't pleasant. But he's a hoss thief, too. There's my team. You know that team of mine, Mr. Davison," he went on, turning to the drug storekeeper who had dropped in to hear his friend's news. "You've drove behind 'em many a time. They got a three-minute gait between 'em which 'ud show dust to any team around these parts. That team was worth two thousand dollars, sirs, and was matched to an inch, and a shade of color. Say, if I get across his tracks, an' Sheriff Richardson is out after him with a posse, I'm goin' to get a shot in before the United States Authorities waste public money feeding him in penitentiary. I'm feelin' that mad I can't eat, an' I don't guess I'd know how to hand a decent answer to a Methodist minister if he came along. If I don't get news of that team I'm just going to start and break something. I don't figure if he'd burned this shack right over my head I'd have felt as mad as I do losin' that dandy team."

When questioned as to how the man had got away his answer came sharply.

"How? Why, what was there to stop him, sir? I tell you right here we ain't been accustomed to deal with his kind in Snake's. The folk around this layout, till this coal boom started, has all been decent citizens." He glared with hot eyes upon the men about him, who were nearly all speculators attracted by that very coal boom. "There's that darned fire-escape out back, right down from his room, an' what man has ever locked his barn in these parts? Psha!" he cried, in violent disgust. "I've had that team three years, and I've never so much as had a lock put to the barn."

So it went on all the morning. Peter's fury was one of the sights of the township for that day. He was never without an audience which flowed and ebbed like a tide, stimulated by curiosity, self-interest, and the natural satisfaction of witnessing another's troubles which is so much an instinct of human nature.

And beneath every other emotion which the agent's sudden defection aroused was a wave of almost pitiful meanness. The dreams of the last week and more had received a set back. In many minds the boom city was tottering. The crowding hopes of avarice and self-interest had suddenly received a douche of cold water. What, these speculators asked themselves, and each other, did the incident portend, what had the future in store?

So keen was the interest worked up about Peter McSwain's house that every other consideration for the time being was forgotten. Party after party visited Slosson's late quarters with a feeling of conviction that some trifling clew had been overlooked, and, by some happy chance, the luck and glory of having discovered it might fall to their lot. But it was all of no avail. The room was absolutely empty of all trace of its recent occupant, as only an hotel room can become.

With the excitement the daily west-bound passenger train was forgotten, and by the time it was signaled in, the little depot was almost deserted. There were one or two rigs backed up to it on the town side, and perhaps a dozen townspeople were present. But the usual gathering was nowhere about.

Amongst the few present were Hazel Mallinsbee and Gordon. They had driven up in a democrat wagon with a particularly fine team, and having backed the vehicle up to the boarded platform, they stood talking earnestly and quite unnoticed. Hazel was dressed in an ordinary suit that possessed nothing startling in its atmosphere of smartness. Her skirt was of some rather hard material, evidently for hard wear, and the upper part of her costume was a white lawn shirtwaist under a short jacket which matched her skirt. Her head was adorned by her customary prairie hat, which, in Gordon's eyes, became her so admirably.

Gordon was holding up a picture for the girl's closest inspection.

"Say, it's sheer bull-headed luck I got this with me," he was saying. "I found it amongst my old papers and things when I left New York, and I sort of brought it along as a 'mascot.' The old dad's older than that now, but you can't mistake him. It's a bully likeness. Get it into your mind anyway, and then keep it with you."

Hazel gazed admiringly at the portrait of the man who claimed Gordon as his son. For the moment she forgot the purpose in hand.

"Isn't he just splendid?" she exclaimed. "You're – you're the image of him. Why, say, it seems the unkindest thing ever to – to play him up."

Gordon laughed.

"Don't worry that way. We're going to give him the time of his life." Then he glanced swiftly about him, and noted the emptiness of the depot. "I guess Peter's keeping the folks busy. He's a bright feller. I surely guess he's working overtime. Now you get things fixed right, Hazel. The train's coming along."

The girl nodded.

"You can trust me."

"Right." Gordon sighed. "I'll make tracks then. But I'll be around handy to see you don't make a mistake."

He left the depot and disappeared. Hazel stood studying the picture in her hand, and alternating her attention with the incoming train. She was in a happy mood. The excitement of her share in Gordon's plot was thrilling through her veins, and the thought that she was going to meet his father, the great multi-millionaire, left her almost beside herself with delighted interest.

She wondered how much she would find him like Gordon. No, she thought softly, he could never be really like Gordon. That was impossible. A multi-millionaire could never have his son's frank enthusiasm for life in all its turns and twistings of moral impulse. Gordon faced life with a defiant "don't care." That glorious spirit of youth and moral health. His father, for all his physical resemblance, would be a hard, stern, keen-eyed man, with all experience behind him. Then she remembered Gordon's injunctions.

"Be just yourself," he had said. Then he had added, with a laugh, "If you do that you'll have the dear old boy at your feet long before the day's had time to get cool."

It was rather nice Gordon talking that way, and the smile which accompanied her recollection was frankly delighted. Anyway she would soon know all about it, for the train was already rumbling its way in.

James Carbhoy had done all that had been required of him by his agent's message. He had not welcomed the abandonment of his private car in favor of the ordinary parlor car and sleeper. Then, too, the purchase of a ticket for his journey had seemed strange. But somehow, after the first break from his usual method of travel, he had found enjoyment in the situation. His fellow passengers, with whom he had got into conversation on the journey, had passed many pleasant hours, and it became quite absorbing to look on at the affairs of the world through eyes that, for the time being, were no longer those of one of the country's multi-millionaires.

However, the journey was a long one, and he was pleased enough when he reached his destination all unheralded and unrecognized. It amused him to find how many travelers in the country knew nothing about James Carbhoy and his vast financial exploits.

As the train slowed down he gathered up his simple belongings, which consisted of a crocodile leather suitcase, a stout valise of the same material; and a light dust coat, which he slung over his arm. Armed with these, he fell in with the queue making its way towards the exit of the car. He frankly and simply enjoyed the situation. He told himself he was merely one of the rest of the get-rich-quick brigade who were flocking to the Eldorado at Snake's Fall.

He was the last to alight, and he scanned the depot platform for the familiar figure of his confidential agent. As he did so the locomotive bell began to toll out its announcement of progress. The train slowly slid out of the station behind him.

David Slosson was nowhere to be seen, and he had just made up his mind to search out a hotel for himself when he became aware of the tailored figure of a young girl standing before him, and of the pleasant tones of her voice addressing him.

"Your agent, David Slosson, Mr. Carbhoy, has been detained out beyond the coalfields on your most urgent business," she said. "So I was sent in with the rig to drive you out to your quarters."

The millionaire was startled. Then, as his steady eyes searched the delightful face smiling up at him, his start proved a pleasant one. There was something so very charming in the girl's tone and manner. Then her extremely pretty eyes, and – Gordon's father mechanically bared his head, and Hazel could have laughed with joy as she beheld this strong, handsome edition of the Gordon she knew.

"Well, come, that was thoughtful of Slosson," he said kindly. "He certainly has shown remarkable judgment in substituting your company for his own. My dear young lady, Slosson as a man of affairs is possible, but as a companion on a journey, however short – well, I – And you are really going to drive me to my hotel. That's surely kind of you."

Hazel flushed. She felt the meanest thing in the world under the great man's kindly regard. However, she reminded herself of the great and ultimate object of the part she was playing and steeled her heart.

"The team's right here, sir." She felt justified in adding the "sir." She felt that she must risk nothing in her manner. "I'll just take your baggage along."

She was about to relieve the millionaire of his grips, but he drew back.

"Say, I just couldn't dream of it. You carry my grips? No, no, go right ahead, and I'll bring them along."

In a perfect maze of excitement and confusion the girl hastily crossed over to her team. Somehow she could no longer face the man's steady eyes without betraying herself like some weak, silly schoolgirl. This was Gordon's father, she kept telling herself, and – and she was there to cheat him. It – it just seemed dreadful.

However, no time was wasted. She sprang into the driving-seat of the democrat spring rig, and took up the reins. The millionaire deposited his grips in the body of the vehicle, and himself mounted to the seat beside her. In a moment the wagon was on the move.

As they moved away, out of the corners of her eyes Hazel saw the grinning face of Gordon peering out at them from the window of Steve Mason's telegraph office, smiling approval and encouragement. Curiously enough, the sight made her feel almost angry.

They moved down Main Street at a rattling pace, and, in a few moments, turned off it into one of those streets which only the erection of dwelling-houses marked. There were no made roads of any sort. Just beaten, heavy, sandy tracks on the virgin ground.

Hazel remained silent for some time. She was almost afraid to speak. Yet she wanted to. She wanted to talk to Gordon's father. She wanted to tell him of the mean trick she was playing upon him, for, under the influence of his steady eyes and the knowledge that he was Gordon's father, a great surge of shame was stirring in her heart which made her hate herself.

For some time the man gazed about him interestedly. Then, as they lost themselves among the wooden frame dwelling-houses, he breathed a deep sigh of content and drew out one of those extravagant cigars which Gordon had not tasted for so many weeks.

"Say, will smoke worry you any, young lady?" he inquired kindly.

Hazel was thankful for the opportunity of a cordial reply.

"Why, no," she cried. Then on the impulse she went on, "I just love the smell of smoke where men are." She laughed merrily. "I guess men without smoke makes you feel they're sick in body or conscience."

Gordon's father laughed in his quiet fashion as he lit his cigar.

"That way I guess folks of the Anti-Tobacco League need to start right in and build hospitals for themselves."

The girl nodded.

"Anti-Tobacco?" she said. "Why, 'anti' anything wholesomely human must be a terrible sick crowd. I'd hate to trust them with my pocket-book, and, goodness knows, there's only about ten cents in it. Even that would be a temptation to such folks."

Again came the millionaire's quiet laugh.

"That's the result of the healthy life you folks live right out here in the open sunshine," he said, noting the pretty tanning of the girl's face. "I don't guess it's any real sign of health, mentally or physically, when folks have to start 'anti' societies, eh?"

"No, sir," replied the girl. "Did you ever know anybody that was really healthy who started in to worry how they were living? It's just what I used to notice way back at college in Boston. The girls that came from cities were just full of cranks and notions. This wasn't right for them to eat, that wasn't right for them to do. And it seemed to me all their folks belonged to some 'anti' society of some sort. If the 'anti' wasn't for themselves it was for some other folks who weren't worried with the things they did or the way they lived. It just seems to me cities are full of cranks who can run everything for other folks and need other folks to run everything for them. It's just a sort of human drug store in which every med'cine has to be able to cure the effects of some other. Out here it's different. We got green grass and sunshine, the same as God started us with, and so we haven't got any use for the 'anti' folks."

"No." James Carbhoy had forgotten the journey and its object. He was only aware of this fresh, bright young creature beside him. He stirred in his seat and glanced about him from a sheer sense of a new interest, and in looking about he became aware of a horseman riding on the same trail some distance behind them.

"You said Boston just now," he said curiously. "You were educated in Boston?"

Hazel nodded.

"Yes, my poppa sent me to Boston. He just didn't reckon anything but Boston was good enough. But I was glad to be back here again."

The millionaire would have liked to question her more closely as to how she came to be driving a team at Slosson's command. He had no great regard for his agent outside of business, But somehow he felt it would be an impertinence, and so refrained. Instead, he changed the subject.

"How far out are the coalfields?" he inquired.

"About five miles." The memory of her purpose swept over the girl again, and her reply came shortly, and she glanced back quickly over her shoulder.

As she did so she became sickeningly aware that two horsemen were on the trail some distance behind them. How she wished she had never undertaken this work!

"I suppose there's quite a town there now?" was the millionaire's next inquiry.

"Not a great deal, but there's comfortable quarters the other side of it. It's going to be a wonderful, wonderful place, sir, when the railroad starts booming it."

Hazel felt she must get away from anything approaching a cross-examination.

"I don't just get that," said Carbhoy evasively.

"Well, it's just a question of depot. You see, there's coal right here enough to heat the whole world. That's what folks say. And when the railroad fixes things so transport's right, why, everybody 'll just jump around and build up big commercial corporations, and – there'll be dollars for everybody."

"I see – yes."

"Mr. Slosson is working that way now," the girl went on. Then she added, with a shadowy smile, "That's why he couldn't get in to meet you, I guess."

"He must be very busy," said the millionaire dryly. "However, I'm glad." And Hazel turned in time to discover his kindly smile.

Carbhoy gazed about him at the open plains with which they were surrounded. The air, though hot, was fresh, and the sunlight, though brilliant, seemed to lack something of that intensity to be found in the enclosed streets of a city. He threw away his cigar stump, and in doing so he glanced back over the trail again. He remained gazing intently in that direction for some moments. Then he turned back.

"I guess those fellers riding along behind are just prairie men," he said.

Hazel started and looked over her shoulder. There were four men now riding together on the trail. They were steadily keeping pace with her team some two hundred yards behind.

It was some moments before the man received his answer. Hazel was troubled. She was almost horrified.

"Yes," she said at last, with an effort. "They're just prairie men." Then she smiled, but her smile was a further effort. "They're pretty tough boys to look at, but I'd say they're all right. Maybe you're not used to the prairie?"

The millionaire smiled.

"I've seen it out of a train window," he said.

"Through glass," said Hazel. "It makes a difference, doesn't it? It's the same with everything. You've got to get into contact to – to understand."

"But there hasn't always been glass between me and – things."

Hazel's smile was spontaneous now as she nodded her appreciation.

"I'm sure," she said. "You see, you're a millionaire."

Carbhoy smiled back at her.

"Just so." This girl was slowly filling him with amazement.

"It's real plate-glass now," Hazel went on.

"And plate-glass sometimes gets broken."

"Yes, I s'pose it does. But you can fix it again – being a millionaire."

"Yes – "

The millionaire broke off. There was a rush of hoofs from behind. The horsemen were close up to them, coming at a hard gallop. Carbhoy turned quickly. So did Hazel. The millionaire's eyes were calmly curious. He imagined the men were just going to pass on. Hazel's eyes were full of a genuine alarm. She had known what to expect. But now that the moment had come she was really terrified. What would Gordon's father do? Had he a revolver? And would he use it? This was the source of her fear.

It was a breathless moment for the girl. It was the crux of all Gordon's plans. She was the center of it. She, and these men who were to execute the lawless work.

She was given no time to speculate. She was given no time but for that dreadful wave of fear which swept over her, and left her pretty face ghastly beneath its tanning. A voice, harsh, commanding, bade her pull up her team, and the order was accompanied by a string of blasphemy and the swift play of the man's gun.

"Hold 'em up, blast you! Hold 'em, or I'll blow the life right out o' you!" came the ruthless order.

At the same time James Carbhoy was confronted with a gun from another direction, and a sharp voice invited him to "push his hands right up to the sky."

Both orders were obeyed instantly, and as Hazel saw her companion's hands thrown up over his head a great reaction of relief set in. She sat quite still and silent. Her reins rested loosely in her lap. She no longer dared to look at her companion. Now that all danger of his resistance was past she feared lest an almost uncontrollable inclination to laugh should betray her.

She kept her eyes steadily fixed upon these men, every one of whom she had known since her childhood, and to whom she fully made up her mind she intended to read a lecture on the subject of the use of oaths to a woman, sometime in the future. As she watched them her inclination to laugh grew stronger and stronger. They had carried out their part with a nicety for detail that was quite laudable. Each man was armed to the teeth, and was as grotesque a specimen of prairie ruffianism as clothes could make him – the leader particularly. And he, in everyday life, she knew to be the mildest and most quaintly humorous of men.