CHAPTER XII
CONFESSION
In spite of his perplexities, Peter slept soundly and was only awakenedby the jangling of the telephone bell. But Peter wanted to do a littlethinking before he saw McGuire, and he wanted to ask the housekeeper afew questions, so he told McGuire that he would see him before teno'clock. The curious part of the telephone conversation was that McGuiremade no mention of the shooting. "H-m," said Peter to himself as he hungup, "going to ignore that trifling incident altogether, is he? Well,we'll see about that. It doesn't pay to be too clever, old cock." Hispity for McGuire was no more. At the present moment Peter felt nothingfor him except an abiding contempt which could hardly be modified by anysubsequent revelations.
Peter ran down to the creek in his bath robe and took a quick plunge,then returned, shaved and dressed while his coffee boiled, thinking witha fresh mind over the events and problems of the night before. Curiouslyenough, he found that he considered them more and more in their relationto Beth. Perhaps it was his fear for her happiness that laid stress onthe probability that Jim Coast was Ben Cameron, Beth's father. Howotherwise could Mrs. Bergen's terror be accounted for? And yet why hadCoast been so perturbed at the mere mention of Ben Cameron's name? Thatwas really strange. For a moment the man had stared at Peter as thoughhe were seeing a ghost. If he _were_ Ben Cameron, why shouldn't he haveacknowledged the fact? Here was the weak point in the armor of mystery.Peter had to admit that even while Coast was telling his story and theconviction was growing in Peter's mind that this was Beth's father, thevery thought of Beth herself seemed to make the relationship grotesque.This Jim Coast, this picturesque blackguard who had told tales on the_Bermudian_ that had brought a flush of shame even to Peter'scheeks--this degenerate, this scheming blackmailer--thief, perhapsmurderer, too, the father of Beth! Incredible! The merest contact withsuch a man must defile, defame her. And yet if this were the fact, Coastwould have a father's right to claim her, to drag her down, a prey tohis vile tongue and drunken humors as she had once been when a child.Her Aunt Tillie feared this. And Aunt Tillie did not know as Peter nowdid of the existence of the vile secret that sealed Coast's lips andheld McGuire's soul in bondage.
Instead of going directly up the lawn to the house Peter went along theedge of the woods to the garage and then up the path, as Coast must havedone a few nights before. The housekeeper was in the pantry and therePeter sought her out. He noted the startled look in her eyes at themoment he entered the room and then the line of resolution into whichher mouth was immediately drawn. So Peter chose a roundabout way ofcoming to his subject.
"I wanted to talk to you about Beth, Mrs. Bergen," he began cheerfully.She offered him a chair but Peter leaned against the windowsill lookingout into the gray morning. He told her what he had discovered about herniece's voice, that he himself had been educated in music and that hethought every opportunity should be given Beth to have her voicetrained.
He saw that Mrs. Bergen was disarmed for the moment as to the realpurpose of his visit and he went on to tell her just what had happenedat the Cabin with Shad Wells the day before, and asking her, as Beth'sonly guardian, for permission to carry out his plan to teach her allthat he knew, after which he hoped it would be possible for her to go toNew York for more advanced training.
Mrs. Bergen listened in wonder, gasping at the tale of Shad Wells'sundoing, which Peter asked her to keep in confidence. From Mrs. Bergen'scomments he saw that she took little stock in Shad, who had beenbothering Beth for two years or more, and that her own love for the girlamounted to a blind adoration which could see no fault in anything thatshe might do. It was clear that she was delighted with the opportunitiesPeter offered, for she had always known that Beth sang "prettier thananybody in the world." As to going to the Cabin for the lessons, thatwas nobody's business but Beth's. She was twenty-two--and able to lookout for herself.
"I'm an old woman, Mr. Nichols," she concluded timidly, "an' I've seen alot of trouble, one kind or another, but I ain't often mistaken in myjudgments. I know Beth. She ain't nobody's fool. And if she likes you,you ought to be glad of it. If she's willin' to come to your cabin, I'mwillin' that she should go there--no matter who don't like it or why.She can look after herself--aye, better than I can look after her." Shesighed. And then with some access of spirit, "You're different from mostof the folks around here, but I don't see nothin' wrong with you. If yousay you want to help Beth, I'm willin' to believe you. But if I thoughtyou meant her any harm----"
She broke off and stared at him with her mild eyes under brows meant tobe severe.
"I hope you don't want to think that, Mrs. Bergen," said Peter gently.
"No. I don't want to. Beth don't take up with every Tom, Dick and Harry.And if she likes you, I reckon she knows what's she's about."
"I want to help her to make something of herself," said Peter calmly."And I know I can. Beth is a very unusual girl."
"Don't you suppose I know that? She always was. She ain't the same asthe rest of us down here. She always wanted to learn. Even now whenshe's through school, she's always readin'--always."
"That's it. She ought to complete her education. That's what I mean. Iwant to help her to be a great singer. I can do it if you'll let me."
"Where's the money comin' from?" sighed Mrs. Bergen.
"No need to bother about that, yet. I can give her a beginning, if youapprove. After that----" Peter paused a moment and then, "We'll see," hefinished.
He was somewhat amazed at the length to which his subconscious thoughtwas carrying him, for his spoken words could infer nothing less than hisundertaking at his own expense the completion of the girl's education.The housekeeper's exclamation quickly brought him to a recognition ofhis meaning.
"You mean--that _you_----!" she halted and looked at him over herglasses in wonder.
"Yes," he said blandly, aware of an irrevocable step. "I do, Mrs.Bergen."
"My land!" she exclaimed. And then again as though in echo, "My land!"
"That's one of the reasons why I've come here to you to-day," he went onquickly. "I want to help Beth and I want to help _you_. I know thateverything isn't going right for you at Black Rock House. I've beendrawn more deeply into--into McGuire's affairs than I expected to be andI've learned a great many things that aren't any business of mine. Andone of the things I've learned is that your peace of mind and Beth'shappiness are threatened by the things that are happening around you."
The housekeeper had risen and stood leaning against the dresser,immediately on her guard.
"Mrs. Bergen," he went on firmly, "there's no use of trying to evadethis issue--because it's here! I know more than you think I do. I'mtrying to get at the root of this mystery because of Beth. You told methe other night that Beth's happiness was involved when that strangercame to the kitchen porch----"
"No, no," gasped the woman. "Don't ask me. I'll tell you nothin'."
"You saw this man--outside the kitchen door in the dark," he insisted."You talked with him----"
"No--no. Don't ask me, Mr. Nichols."
"Won't you tell me what he said? I saw him last night--talked with himfor an hour----"
"_You_--talked--with him!" she gasped in alarm. And then, haltingly,"What did he say to you? What did he do? Is he coming back?"
She was becoming more disturbed and nervous, so Peter brought a chairand made her sit in it.
"No. He's not coming back--not for a month or more," he repliedreassuringly. "But if I'm to help you, I've got to know something moreabout him, and for Beth's sake you've got to help me." And then quietly,"Mrs. Bergen, was this man who came to the kitchen door, Ben Cameron,Beth's father?"
"My God!" said the housekeeper faintly, putting her face in her hands.
"Won't you tell me just what happened?" Peter asked.
"I--I'm scared, Mr. Nichols," she groaned. "The whole thing has been toomuch for me--knowin' how scared Mr. McGuire is too. I can't understand,I can't even--think--no more."
"Let me do your thinking for y
ou. Tell me what happened the other night,Mrs. Bergen."
The woman raised a pallid face, her colorless eyes blinking up at himbeseechingly.
"Tell me," he whispered. "It can do no possible harm."
She glanced pitifully at him once more and then haltingly told herstory.
"I--I was sittin' in the kitchen there, the night of the supperparty--by the door--restin' and tryin' to get cool--when--when a knockcome on the door-jamb outside. It sounded queer--the door bein'open--an' my nerves bein' shook sorter with the goin's on here. But Iwent to the door an' leaned out. There was a man standin' in theshadow----"
Mrs. Bergen paused in a renewed difficulty of breathing.
"And then----?" Peter urged.
"He--he leaned forward toward me an' spoke rough-like. 'You're the cook,ain't you?' he says. I was that scared I--I couldn't say nothin'. An' hewent on. 'You tell McGuire to meet me at the end of the lawn to-morrownight.'"
"And what did you say?"
"Nothin'. I couldn't."
"What else did he tell you?"
Mrs. Bergen bent her head but went on with an effort.
"He says, 'Tell McGuire Ben--Ben Cameron's come back.'"
"I see. And you were more frightened than ever?"
"Yes. More frightened--terrible. I didn't know what to do. I mumbledsomethin'. Then you an' Beth come in----"
"And _was_ it Ben Cameron that you saw?"
The poor creature raised her gaze to Peter's again.
"B-Ben Cameron? Who else could it 'a' been? An' I thought he was dead,Mr. Nichols--years ago."
"You didn't recognize him, then?"
"I--I don't know. It was all so sudden--like seein' a corpse--speakin'that name."
"He wore a short beard?"
"Yes. But Ben Cameron was smooth shaved."
"Did Ben Cameron have any distinguishing mark--anything you couldremember him by?"
"Yes. Ben Cameron's little finger of his left hand was missin'----. Butof course, Mr. Nichols, I couldn't see nothin' in the dark."
"No, of course," said Peter with a gasp of relief. "But his voice----?"
"It was gruff--hoarse--whisperin'-like."
"Was the Ben Cameron you knew, your brother-in-law--was he tall?"
She hesitated, her brows puckering.
"That's what bothered me some. Beth's father wasn't over tall----"
"I see," Peter broke in eagerly, "and this man was tall--about mysize--with a hook nose--black eyes and----"
"Oh, I--I couldn't see his face," she muttered helplessly. "The nightwas too dark."
"But you wouldn't swear it was Ben Cameron?"
She looked up at him in a new bewilderment. "But who else could it 'a'been--sayin' that name--givin' that message?"
Peter rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Queer, isn't it? I don't wonder that you were alarmed--especially forBeth, knowing the kind of man he was."
"It's terrible, Mr. Nichols. A man like Ben Cameron never gets madeover. He's bad clear through. If you only knew----" Mrs. Bergen's paleeyes seemed to be looking back into the past. "He means no good toBeth--that's what frightens me. He could take her away from me. She'shis daughter----"
"Well--don't worry," said Peter at last. "We'll find a way to protectyou." And then, "Of course you didn't take that message to McGuire?" heasked.
"Why, no--Mr. Nichols. I couldn't. I'd 'a' died first. But what does itall mean? _Him_ bein' scared of Ben Cameron, too. I can't make itout--though I've thought and thought until I couldn't think no more."
She was on the point of tears now, so Peter soothed her gently.
"Leave this to me, Mrs. Bergen." And then, "You haven't said anything ofthis to any one?"
"Not a soul--I--I was hopin' it might 'a' been just a dream."
Peter was silent for a moment, gazing out of the window and thinkingdeeply.
"No. It wasn't a dream," he said quietly at last. "You saw a man by thekitchen door, and he gave you the message about Ben Cameron, _but theman you saw wasn't Ben Cameron_, Mrs. Bergen, because, unless I'm verymuch mistaken, Ben Cameron is dead----"
"How do you----?"
"He didn't die when you thought he did, Mrs. Bergen--but later. I can'ttell you how. It's only a guess. But I'm beginning to see a light inthis affair--and I'm going to follow it until I find the truth. Good-by.Don't worry."
And Peter, with a last pat on the woman's shoulder and an encouragingsmile, went out of the door and into the house.
Eagerly Peter's imagination was trying to fill the gap in Jim Coast'sstory, and his mind, now intent upon the solution of the mystery, gropedbefore him up the stair. And what it saw was the burning Gila Desert ...the mine among the rocks--"lousy" with outcroppings of ore ... "Mike"McGuire and "Hawk" Kennedy, devious in their ways, partners in a vileconspiracy....
But Peter's demeanor was careless when Stryker admitted him to McGuire'sroom and his greeting in reply to McGuire's was casual enough to put hisemployer off his guard. After a moment's hesitation McGuire sent thevalet out and went himself and closed and locked the door. Peter refusedhis cigar, lighting one of his own cigarettes, and sank into the chairhis host indicated. After the first words Peter knew that his surmisehad been correct and that his employer meant to deny all share in theshooting of the night before.
"Well," began the old man, with a glance at the door, "what did he say?"
Peter shook his head judicially. He had already decided on the directionwhich this conversation must take.
"No. It won't do, Mr. McGuire," he said calmly.
"What do you mean?"
"Merely that before we talk of what Hawk Kennedy said to me, we'lldiscuss your reasons for unnecessarily putting my life in danger----"
"This shooting you've spoken of----"
"This attempted _murder_!"
"You're dreaming."
Peter laughed at him. "You'll be telling me in a moment that you didn'thear the shots." And then, leaning forward so that he stared deep intohis employer's eyes, "See here, Mr. McGuire, I'm not to be trifled with.I know too much of your affairs--more than you think I do----"
"He talked----?" McGuire's poise was slipping from him.
"One moment, if you please. I want this thing perfectly understood. Yourarrangements were cleverly made--changing the guards--your instructionsto me--the flashlight and all the rest. You didn't want to kill me ifyou could help it. I'm obliged for this consideration. You forgot thatyour hand isn't as steady now as it was when you were a dead shot out inArizona--Ah! I see that you already understand what I mean."
McGuire had started forward in his chair, his face livid.
"You know----?"
"Yes. More than I wanted to know--more than I would ever have known ifyou'd played fair with me. You cared nothing for my life. You shot,twice, missed killing your man and then when the light went out, sneakedaway like the coward that you are----"
"D----n you," croaked McGuire feebly, falling back in his chair.
"Leaving me to the mercies of your ancient enemy in the dark--whothought _me_ your accomplice. You can hardly blame him under thecircumstances. But I got the best of him--luckily for me, and disarmedhim. If you had remained a few moments longer you might have taken partin our very interesting conversation. Do you still deny all this?"
McGuire, stifled with his fear and fury, was incapable of a reply.
"Very good. So long as we understand each other thus far, perhaps youwill permit me to go on. As you know, I came to you in good faith. Iwanted to help you in any way that a gentleman could do. Last night youtricked me, and put my life in danger. If you had killed Kennedyeverything would have been all right for _you_. And I would have beenaccused of the killing. If _I_ had been killed no harm would have beendone at all. That was your idea. It was a clever little scheme. Pity itdidn't work out."
McGuire's faltering courage was coming back.
"Go on!" he muttered desperately.
"Thanks," said Peter, "I will. One shot of yours scraped Kenne
dy'sshoulder. He was bleeding badly, so I took him to the Cabin and fixedhim up. He was rather grateful. He ought to have been. I gave him adrink too--several drinks. You said he wouldn't talk, but he did."
"You _made_ him talk, d----n you," McGuire broke in hoarsely.
"No. He volunteered to talk. I may say, he insisted upon it. You see, Ihappened to have the gentleman's acquaintance----"
"You----!"
"We met on the steamer coming over when we were escaping from Russia.His name was Jim Coast then. He was a waiter in the dining saloon. Sowas I. Funny, isn't it?"
To McGuire it seemed far from that, for at this revelation his jawdropped and he stared at Peter as though the entire affair were beyondhis comprehension.
"You knew him! A waiter, _you_!"
"Yes. Misfortune makes strange bedfellows. It was either that orstarvation. I preferred to wait."
"For--for the love of God--go on," growled McGuire. His hands wereclutching the chair arm and there was madness in his shifting eyes, soPeter watched him keenly.
"I will. He told me how you and he had worked together out in Colorado,up in the San Luis valley, of the gold prospect near Wagon Wheel Gap, ofits failure--how you met again in Pueblo and then went down into thecopper country--Bisbee, Arizona."
Peter had no pity now. He saw McGuire straighten again in his chair, hisgaze shifting past Peter from left to right like a trapped animal. Hisfingers groped along the chair arms, along the table edge, trembling,eager but uncertain. But the sound of Peter's narrative seemed tofascinate--to hypnotize him.
"Go on----!" he whispered hoarsely. "Go on!"
"You got an outfit and went out into the Gila Desert," continued Peter,painting his picture leisurely, deliberately. "It was horrible--theheat, the sand, the rocks--but you weren't going to fail this time.There was going to be something at the end of this terrible pilgrimageto repay you for all that you suffered, you and Hawk Kennedy. There wasno water, but what you carried on your pack-mules--no water within ahundred miles, nothing but sand and rocks and the heat. No chance at allfor a man, alone without a horse, in that desert. You saw the bones ofmen and animals bleaching along the trail. That was the death thatawaited any man----"
"You lie!"
Peter sprang for the tortured man as McGuire's fingers closed onsomething in the open drawer of the table, but Peter twisted the weaponquickly out of his hand and threw it in the corner of the room.
"You fool," he whispered quickly as he pinioned McGuire in his chair,"do you want to add another murder to what's on your conscience?"
But McGuire had already ceased to resist him. Peter hadn't been toogentle with him. The man had collapsed. A glance at his face showed hiscondition. So Peter poured out a glass of whisky and water which hepoured between his employer's gaping lips. Then he waited, watching theold man. He seemed really old now to Peter, a hundred at least, for hissagging facial muscles seemed to reveal the lines of every event in hislife--an old man, though scarcely sixty, yet broken and helpless. Hecame around slowly, his heavy gaze slowly seeking Peter's.
"What--what are you going to do?" he managed at last.
"Nothing. I'm no blackmailer." And then, playing his high card, "I'veheard what Hawk said about Ben Cameron," said Peter. "Now tell me thetruth."
At the sound of the name McGuire started and then his eyes closed for amoment.
"You know--everything," he muttered.
"Yes, _his_ side," Peter lied. "What's yours?"
McGuire managed to haul himself upright in his chair, staring up atPeter with bloodshot eyes.
"He's lied to you, if he said I done it----," he gasped, relapsing intothe vernacular of an earlier day. "It was Hawk. He stabbed him in theback. I never touched him. I never had a thing to do with the killin'. Iswear it----"
Peter's lips set in a thin line.
"So Hawk Kennedy killed Ben Cameron!" he said.
"He did. I swear to God----"
"And then _you_ cleared out with all the water, leaving Hawk to die._That_ was murder--cold-blooded murder----"
"My God, don't, Nichols!" the old man moaned. "If you only knew----"
"Well, then--tell me the truth."
Their glances met. Peter's was compelling. He had, when he chose, an airof command. And there was something else in Peter's look, inflexible asit was, that gave McGuire courage, an unalterable honesty which had beenso far tried and not found wanting.
"You know--already," he stammered.
"Tell me your story," said Peter bluntly.
There was a long moment of hesitation, and then,
"Get me a drink, Nichols. I'll trust you. I've never told it to a livingman. I'll tell--I'll tell it all. It may not be as bad as you think."
He drank the liquor at a gulp and set the glass down on the table besidehim.
"This--this thing has been hanging over me for fifteen years,Nichols--fifteen years. It's weighted me down, made an old man of mebefore my time. Maybe it will help me to tell somebody. It's made mehard--silent, busy with my own affairs, bitter against every man whocould hold his head up. I knew it was going to come some day. I knew it.You can't pull anything like that and get away with it forever. I'd madethe money for my kids--I never had any fun spending it in my life. I'm alonely man, Nichols. I always was. No happiness except when I came backto my daughters--to Peggy and my poor Marjorie...."
McGuire was silent for a moment and Peter, not taking his gaze from hisface, patiently waited. McGuire glanced at him just once and then wenton, slipping back from time to time into the speech of a bygone day.
"I never knew what his first name was. He was always just 'Hawk' to usboys on the range. Hawk Kennedy was a bad lot. I knew it up there in theSan Luis valley but I wasn't no angel from Heaven myself. And he had away with him. We got on all right together. But when the gold mine up atthe Gap petered out he quit me--got beaten up in a fight about a woman.I didn't see him for some years, when he showed up in Pueblo, where Iwas workin' in a smelter. He was all for goin' South into the coppercountry. He had some money--busted a faro bank he said, and talked bigabout the fortune he was goin' to make. Ah, he could talk, when he hadsomething on his mind.... I had some money saved up too and so I quit myjob and went with him down to Bisbee, Arizona. I wish to God I neverhad. I'd gotten pretty well straightened out up in Pueblo, sendin' moneyEast to the wife and all----. But I wanted to be rich. I was forty-fiveand I had to hurry. But I could do it yet. Maybe this was my chance.That's the way I thought. That's why I happened to listen to HawkKennedy and his tales of the copper country.
"Well, we got an outfit in Bisbee and set out along the Mexican border.We had a tip that let us out into the desert. It was just a tip, that'sall. But it was worth following up. It was about this man Ben Cameron.He'd come into town all alone, get supplies and then go out again nextday. He let slip something over the drink one night. That was the tip wewere followin' up. We struck his trail all right--askin' questions ofgreasers and Indians. We knew he'd found somethin' good or he wouldn'thave been so quiet about it.
"I swear to God, I had no idea of harmin' him. I wanted to find what BenCameron had found, stake out near him and get what I could. Maybe HawkKennedy had a different idea even then. I don't know. He never said whathe was thinkin' about.
"We found Ben Cameron. Perched up in a hill of rocks, he was, livin' inthe hole he'd dug where he'd staked his claim. But we knew he hadn'ttaken out any papers. He never thought anybody'd find him out there inthat Hell-hole. It was Hell all right. Even now whenever I think of whatHell must be I think of what that gulch looked like. Just rocks andalkali dust and heat.
"It all comes back to me. Every little thing that was said anddone--every word. Ben Cameron saw us first--and when we came up, he wassittin' on a rock, his rifle acrost his knees, a hairy man, thin,burnt-out, black as a greaser. Hawk Kennedy passed the time of day, butBen Cameron only cursed at him and waved us off. 'Get the Hell out ofhere,' he says--ugly. But we only laughed at him--for didn't we both seethe kind of a
n egg Ben Cameron was settin' on?
"'Don't be pokin' jokes at the Gila Desert, my little man,' say Hawk,polite as you please. 'It's Hell that's here and here it will remain.'And then we said we were short of water--which we were not--and had heany to spare? But he waved us on with his rifle, never sayin' a word. Sowe moved down the gulch a quarter of a mile and went into camp. Therewas ore here, too, but nothin' like what Ben Cameron had.
"Hawk was quiet that night--creepin' about among the rocks, but hedidn't say what was on his mind. In the mornin' he started off to talkto Ben Cameron an' I went with him. The man was still sittin' on hisrock, with the rifle over his knees--been there all night, I reckon. Buthe let us come to hailin' distance.
"'Nice claim you got there, pardner,' says Hawk.
"'Is it?' says he.
"'Ain't you afraid of rubbin' some o' that verdigris off onto yourpants,' says Hawk.
"'They're my pants,' says Cameron. 'You ain't here for any good. Getout!' And he brings his rifle to his hip. We saw he was scared allright, maybe not so much at what we'd do to him as at sharin' what he'dfound.
"'The Gila Desert ain't _all_ yours, is it, pardner? Or maybe you got amortgage on the earth!' says Hawk, very polite. 'You ain't got noobjection to our stakin' alongside of you, have you? Come along, now.Let's be neighbors. We see what you've got. That's all right. We'll takeyour leavin's. We've got a right to them.'
"And so after a while of palaverin' with him, he lets us come up andlook over his claim. It didn't take any eye at all to see what he'd got.He wasn't much of a man--Ben Cameron--weak-eyed, rum-dum--poor too. Youcould see that by his outfit--worse off than we were. Hawk told him wehad a lot of friends with money--big money in the East. Maybe we couldwork it to run a railroad out to tap the whole ridge. That kind of gothim and we found he had no friends in this part of the country--so wesat down to grub together, Ben Cameron, like me, unsuspectin' of whatwas to happen.
"My God, Nichols, I can see it all like it had happened yesterday. HawkKennedy stood up as though to look around and then before I knew what hewas about had struck Ben Cameron in the back with his knife.
"It was all over in a minute. Ben Cameron reached for his gun but beforehis hand got to it he toppled over sideways and lay quiet.
"I started up to my feet but Hawk had me covered and I knew from whathad happened that he'd shoot, too.
"'Don't make a fuss,' he says. 'Give me your gun.' I knew he had me torights and I did what he said. 'Now,' he says, 'it's yours and mine.'"
McGuire made a motion toward the glass. Peter filled it for him and hedrank.
"And then--what happened?" asked Peter quietly.
"Hawk Kennedy had me dead to rights. There was only one thing to do--tomake believe I was 'with him.' We buried Ben Cameron, then went down andbrought our outfit up, Hawk watchin' me all the while. He'd taken my gunand Ben Cameron's and unloaded them and carried all the ammunition abouthim. But I didn't know what I was in for. That night he made me sit downwhile he drew up a paper, torn from an old note book of Ben Cameron's--apartnership agreement, a contract."
McGuire broke off suddenly and got up, moving nervously to the safe,from one of the drawers of which he took a blue linen envelope andbrought forth a paper which he handed to Peter.
"That's the hellish thing, Nichols," he said hoarsely. "That's why I'mafraid of Hawk Kennedy. A lie that he forced me to sign! And there'sanother paper like this in his possession. Read it, Nichols."
Peter took the paper in his fingers and looked at it curiously. It wassoiled and worn, broken at the edges, written over in lead pencil, butstill perfectly legible.
AGREEMENT BETWEEN HAWK KENNEDY AND MIKE McGUIRE
Us two found Ben Cameron on his copper claim in Madre Gulch. We killed him. Both of us had a hand in it. This mine is Hawk Kennedy's and Mike McGuire's and we are pardners in the same until death us do part, so help us God.
(Signed) MIKE MCGUIRE. HAWK KENNEDY.
"He wanted it on me----" McGuire gasped. "You see? To keep me quiet."
"I understand," said Peter. "This is 'what you've got and what I've got'referred to in the placard."
"Yes," said McGuire. "A partnership agreement and a confession--ofsomething I didn't do."
Peter's eyes were searching him through and through.
"You swear it?"
McGuire held up his right hand and met Peter's gaze without flinching.
"Before God, I do."
Peter was silent for a moment, thinking.
"And then, you left Hawk Kennedy there to die," he said slowly, watchingthe man.
McGuire sank into his chair with a sigh, the perspiration now beaded onhis pale forehead.
"I didn't know what to do, I tell you," he almost whispered. "He hadme. I was unarmed. I'd 'a' killed him if I'd had a gun. But I waited afew days after we buried Cameron--makin' believe I was satisfied witheverything and he believed me, and at last he fell asleep tired withkeepin' watch on me. He was all in. I bored holes in Ben Cameron'sbarrels, lettin' the water out down the rocks, then took the threehorses and the mules with all the water that was left and got awaybefore he woke up.
"It was a terrible thing to do, Nichols--call it murder if you like. Butit served him right. It was comin' to him--and I got away with it. Atfirst when I reached water I had a thought of goin' back--to save himbefore he died--to get that paper I couldn't get that was inside hisshirt."
McGuire leaned forward, his face in his hands for a moment, trying tofinish.
"But I didn't go back, Nichols. I didn't go back. That's the crime I'mpayin' for now--not the other--not the murder of Ben Cameron--I didn'tdo that--the murder of Hawk Kennedy--who has come back."
"What happened then?"
"I turned Ben Cameron's horse and burros loose where there was water andgrass and went on to Bisbee. I told them my buddy had died of a fever. Ithought he had by now. They didn't ask any questions. I was safe. Therest was easy. I filed a claim, found some real money and told what I'dfound. I waited a month, then went back to Madre Gulch with Bill Munroe,the fellow that helped stake us. There was no one there. We searched therocks and plains for miles around for signs of Hawk Kennedy's body, forwe knew he couldn't have got far in that heat without water. But wefound nothin'. Hawk Kennedy had disappeared."
"Then," said Peter, "you built a railroad in and sold out for half amillion dollars----?"
McGuire looked up, mystified.
"Or thereabouts," he muttered. "But Hawk Kennedy was alive. I found thatout later when he wrote from London. We steered him off the track. But Iknew he'd come back some day with that paper I'd signed. That's what'sbeen hangin' over me. An' now it's fallen. I've told you the truth. Ihad to. You believe me, don't you?" he asked appealingly.
Peter had watched him keenly. There seemed little doubt that what hetold was the truth. There was no flaw in the tale.
"Yes," he said after a pause. "I believe you've told me the truth. Butyou can hardly blame Hawk Kennedy, murderer though he is, for hating youand wanting what he thinks is his."
"No. That's true."
"And you can't blame me for being angry at the trick you played me----"
"I was desperate. I've been desperate since I saw him in New York.Sometimes I've been a bit queer, I reckon--thinkin' about Peggy hearin'this. I wanted to kill him. It was a good chance last night. Nobodywould have blamed me, after his being around the place. It was an easyshot--but my hand wasn't steady----"
"Pity you didn't know that before you put me in danger."
"I'm sorry, Nichols--sorry. I'll do anything you like. What do you wantme to do?"
Instead of replying at once Peter took out a cigarette and lighted itcarefully. And then,
"You've never taken the trouble to make any inquiries as to thewhereabouts of the family of Ben Cameron?" he asked.
The old man shook his head.
"Why not?"
"I was afraid to ask."
"I see. Don't you t
hink it's about time you did? It's _his_ money thatmade your fortune."
"He was no good. Nobody knew him. So far as I ever heard, nobody everasked about him."
"Nevertheless he must have had some friends somewhere."
"Maybe. I don't know. I'm willing to help them if I can, providing thisthing can be kept quiet." And then, pleadingly, "You're not going totalk--to use it against me, Nichols?"
Peter's pity for McGuire had come back. The man's terror, hisdesperation of the past weeks had burned him out, worn him to a shell.
"No, I'm not going to talk. Hawk Kennedy didn't dare tell what you'vetold me. That's why I believe you."
"And you'll stay on here and help me?"
"Yes----We'll see how we can balk Hawk Kennedy."
"I'll pay him fifty thousand--a hundred thousand--for thatagreement----"
"Not a dollar. I've got a better use for your money than that."
McGuire thought Peter referred to the necessary improvements of theestate. But Peter had another idea in mind.