Charles Alden Seltzer - Square Deal Sanderson

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But Sanderson merely smirked mirthlessly; he saw no reason for being
joyful over the lie he had told. He was getting deeper and deeper into
the mire of deceit and prevarication, and there seemed to be no escape.

And now, when he had committed himself, he realized that he might have
evaded it all, this last lie at least, by telling Mary that he had
picked the note up on the desert, or anywhere, for that matter, and she
would have been forced to believe him.

He kept her away from him, fending off her caresses with a pretense of
slight indisposition until suddenly panic-stricken over insistence, he
told her he was going to bed, bolted into the room, locked the door
behind him, and sat long in the darkness and the heat, filling the room
with a profane appreciation of himself as a double-dyed fool who could
not even lie intelligently.

CHAPTER VII

KISSES--A MAN REFUSES THEM

There was a kerosene lamp in Sanderson's room, and when, after an hour
of gloomy silence in the dark, he got up and lit the lamp, he felt
decidedly better. He was undressing, preparing to get into bed, when
he was assailed with a thought that brought the perspiration out on him
again.

This time it was a cold sweat, and it came with the realization that
discovery was again imminent, for if, as Mary had said, she had kept
Sanderson's letter to her father, there were in existence two
letters--his own and Will Bransford's--inevitably in different
handwriting, both of which he had claimed to have written.

Sanderson groaned. The more he lied the deeper he became entangled.
He pulled on his trousers, and stood shoeless, gazing desperately
around the room.

He simply must destroy that letter, or Mary, comparing it with the
letter her brother had written would discover the deception.

It was the first time in Sanderson's life that had ever attempted to
deceive anybody, and he was in the grip of a cringing dread.

For the first time since he occupied the room he inspected it, noting
its furnishings. His heart thumped wildly with hope while he looked.

It was a woman's room--Mary's, of course. For there were decorations
here and there--a delicate piece of crochet work on a dresser; a sewing
basket on a stand; a pincushion, a pair of shears; some gaily
ornamented pictures on the walls, and--peering behind the dresser--he
saw a pair of lady's riding-boots.

He strode to a closet door and threw it open, revealing, hanging
innocently on their hooks, a miscellaneous array of skirts, blouses,
and dresses.

Mary had surrendered her room to him. Feeling guilty again, and rather
conscience-stricken, as though he were committing some sacrilegious
action, he went to the dresser and began to search among the effects in
the drawers.

They were filled with articles of wearing apparel, delicately fringed
things that delight the feminine heart, and keepsakes of all
descriptions. Sanderson handled them carefully, but his search was not
the less thorough on that account.

And at last, in one of the upper drawers of the dresser, he came upon a
packet of letters.

Again his conscience pricked him, but the stern urge of necessity drove
him on until he discovered an envelope addressed to the elder
Bransford, in his own handwriting, and close to it a letter from Will
Bransford to Mary Bransford.

Sanderson looked long at the Bransford letter, considering the
situation. He was tempted to destroy that, too, but he reflected,
permitting a sentimental thought to deter him.

For Mary undoubtedly treasured that letter, and when the day came that
he should tell her the truth, the letter would be the only link that
would connect her with the memory of her brother.

Sanderson could not destroy it. He had already offended Mary Bransford
more than he had a right to, and to destroy her brother's letter would
be positively heinous.

Besides, unknown to him, there might be more letters about with Will
Bransford's signature on them, and it might be well to preserve this
particular letter in case he should be called upon to forge Will
Bransford's signature.

So he retied the letters in the packet and restored the packet to its
place, retaining his own letter to Bransford. Smiling grimly now, he
again sought the chair near the window, lit a match, applied the blaze
to the letter, and watched the paper burn until nothing remained of it
but a crinkly ash. Then he smoked a cigarette and got into bed,
feeling more secure.

Determined not to submit to any more of Mary's caresses, and feeling
infinitely small and mean over the realization that he had already
permitted her to carry her affection too far, he frowned at her when he
went into the kitchen after washing the next morning, gruffly replying
when she wished him a cheery, "Good morning," and grasping her arms
when she attempted to kiss him.

He blushed, though, when her eyes reproached him.

"I ain't used to bein' mushed over," he told her. "We'll get along a
heap better if you cut out the kissin'."

"Why, Will!" she said, her lips trembling.

She set them though, instantly, and went about her duties, leaving
Sanderson to stand in the center of the room feeling like a brute.

They breakfasted in silence--almost. Sanderson saw her watching
him--covert glances that held not a little wonder and disappointment.
And then, when the meal was nearly finished, she looked at him with a
taunting half-smile.

"Didn't you sleep good, Will?"

Sanderson looked fairly at her. That "Will" was already an irritation
to him, for it continually reminded him of the despicable part he was
playing. He knew what he was going to say would hurt her, but he was
determined to erect between them a barrier that would prevent a
repetition of any demonstrations of affection of the brother and sister
variety.

He didn't want to let her continue to show affection for him when he
knew that, if she knew who he really was, she would feel more tike
murdering him.

"Look here, Mary," he said, coldly, "I've never cared a heap for the
name Bransford. That's why I changed my name to Sanderson. I never
liked to be called 'Will.' Hereafter I want you to call me
Sanderson--Deal Sanderson. Then mebbe I'll feel more like myself."

She did not answer, but her lips straightened and she sat very rigid.
It was plain to him that she was very much disappointed in him, and
that in her mind was the contrast between her brother of today and her
brother of yesterday.

She got up after a time, holding her head high, and left the room,
saying as she went out:

"Very well; your wishes shall be respected. But it seems to me that
the name Bransford is one be proud of!"

Sanderson grinned into his plate. He felt more decent now than he had
felt since arriving at the Double A. If he could continue to prevent
her from showing any affection for him--visible, at least--he would
feel that the deception he was practising was less criminal. And when
he went away, after settling the differences between Mary Bransford and
Dale, he would have less to reproach himself with.

He did not see Mary again that morning. Leaving the dining-room, he
went outside, finding Barney Owen in the bunkhouse in the company of
several other Double A men.

Owen introduced him to the other men--who had ridden in to the
ranchhouse the previous night, and were getting ready to follow the
outfit wagon down the river into the basin to where the Double A herd
was grazing.

Sanderson watched the men ride away, then he turned to Owen.

"I'm ridin' to Las Vegas, to get a look at the will, an' see what the
records have got to say about the title to the Double A. Want to go?"

"Sure," the little man grinned.

CHAPTER VIII

THE PLOTTERS

Riding down the gentle slope of the basin, Alva Dale maintained a
sullen silence. He rode far in advance of the two men who accompanied
him, not listening to their voices, which occasionally reached him, not
seeming to be aware of their presence.

Defeat had always brought bitterness to Dale; his eyes were glowing
with a futile rage as he led his men homeward.

Dale's scheme to dispose of Ben Nyland had been carefully planned and
deftly carried out. He had meant to hang Nyland, take possession of
his property, and force Peggy to accept whatever conditions he cared to
impose upon her.

The unlooked-for appearance of Mary Bransford's brother had disturbed
his plans. As a matter of fact, the coming of Bill Bransford would
make it necessary for Dale to make entirely new plans.

Dale was puzzled. During the elder Bransford's last days, and for a
year or more preceding the day of Bransford's death, Dale had professed
friendship for him. The pretense of friendship had resulted profitably
for Dale, for it had enabled him to establish an intimacy with
Bransford which had made it possible for Dale to learn much of
Bransford's personal affairs.

For instance, Dale had discovered that there was in Las Vegas no record
of Mary Bransford's birth, and though Bransford had assured him that
Mary was his child, the knowledge had served to provide Dale with a
weapon which he might have used to advantage--had not Bill Bransford
returned in time to defeat him.

Dale had heard the story of the trouble between Bransford and his son,
Will; it was the old tale of father and son not agreeing, and of the
son leaving home, aggrieved.

Dale had made it his business to inquire often about the son, and when
one day Bransford told him he had received a letter from his boy, Dale
betrayed such interest that the elder Bransford had permitted him to
read the letter.

That had been about a year before Mary had written the letter that
Sanderson had found in one of Will Bransford's pockets. The letter
told of the writer's longing to return home. The elder Bransford
declared that his heart had not softened toward the boy and that he
would not answer him. Leaving Dale, Bransford had dropped the letter,
and Dale had picked it up.

Dale still had the letter, and because of his pretended friendship for
the father he had been able to insinuate himself into Mary's good
graces. He had advised Mary to write to her brother, and he had seen
the letter from the younger Bransford in which the latter had told his
sister that he would return.

After reading Will Bransford's letter, and learning from Mary that she
was sending a thousand dollars to her brother, Dale wrote to a friend
in Tucson. Dale's letter accompanied Mary's to the latter town, and
the evil-visaged fellow who received it grinned widely in explaining
the circumstance to two of his friends.

"We'll git him, sure as shootin'," he said. "A thousand dollars ain't
a hell of a lot--but I've put men out of business for less!"

Dale knew the man to whom he had written, and he had received a reply,
telling him that the job would be done. And that was why, when
Sanderson had calmly announced that he was Will Bransford, Dale had
been unwilling to believe his statement.

Dale did not believe, now, that the man who had interfered to save
Nyland was Will Bransford. Dale rode slowly homeward, scowling,
inwardly fuming with rage, but unable to form any decided plan of
action.

It was several miles to the Bar D, Dale's ranch, and when he arrived
there he was in an ugly mood. He curtly dismissed the two men who had
accompanied him and went into the house. Opening the door of the room
he used as an office, he saw a medium-sized man of fifty sitting in a
big desk chair, smoking a cigar.

The man smiled at Dale's surprise, but did not offer to get up, merely
extending his right hand, which Dale grasped and shook heartily.

"Dave Silverthorn, or I'm a ghost!" ejaculated Dale, grinning. "How in
thunder did you get here?"

"Rode," smiled the other, showing a set of white, flashing teeth. "I
saw you pass the window. You looked rather glum, and couldn't see my
horse, I suppose. Something gone wrong?"

"Everything," grunted Dale; "that confounded young Bransford has showed
up!"

The smile left the other's face. His eyes glowed and the corners of
his mouth took on a cruel droop.

"He has, eh?" he said, slowly. His voice was expressionless. "So that
lead has petered out."

He puffed slowly at his cigar, studying Dale's face, while the latter
related what had occurred.

"So Nyland is still at large, eh?" he remarked, when Dale had finished.
"Why not set a gunman on him?"

Dale scowled. "There ain't a gunman in this section that would take a
chance on Nyland--he's lightning!" Dale cursed. "Besides, there ain't
no use in goin' after Nyland's place unless we can get the Double A."

"Then there wasn't any use of going after it yesterday, or today, as
you did," said the other. "Unless," he added, looking intently at
Dale, "the sister has been on your mind some."

Dale reddened.

"I don't mind admittin' she is," he grinned.

"Look out, Dale," warned the other; "there's danger there. Many a big
project has been ruined by men dragging a woman into it. You have no
right to jeopardize this thing with a love affair. Peggy Nyland is
desirable to a man of your intense passion, I suppose; but this project
is bigger than any woman's love!"

"Bah!" sneered Dale. "I can 'tend to her without losin' sight of the
main object."

"All right, then," laughed the other. "The success of this thing
depends largely on you. We can't do a thing with the Legislature;
these sagebrush fools are adamant on the question of water-rights, They
won't restrict an owner's right and title to possession of all the
water on his land.

"And he can dam the stream as much as he pleases, providing he don't
cut down the supply that normally flows to his neighbors; and the gorge
doesn't supply any water to the basin, so that Bransford would be
justified in directing the gorge stream.

"In other words, old Bransford's title to the land that the gorge runs
through is unassailable. There is only one way to get at him, and that
is in some way to get possession of the title."

"That's tied up tighter than blazes," said Dale. "Record and all are
clear. An' there ain't no judge we can get at. But if young Bransford
hadn't come----"

"Yes," smiled Silverthorn. "It's too bad. We had a man, ready to come
on at the word, to impersonate young Bransford. He would have stayed
here long enough to get a clear title to the Double A, and then he
would have turned it over to us for a consideration. It rather looks
as though we are stumped, eh?"

Dale frowned. Then he got up, went to a drawer in the desk before
which Silverthorn sat, and drew out a letter--the letter young
Bransford had written to his father about a year before.

"We've still got a chance," he told Silverthorn. And then he told the
latter of his suspicions about Sanderson.

Silverthorn's eyes gleamed. "That's possible," he said, "but how are
you going to prove it?"

"There's a way," returned Dale. He went to the door, and shouted the
names of two men, standing in the doorway until they came--the two men
who had accompanied him that morning. He spoke to them, briefly:

"You're ridin' straight to Tucson as fast as your cayuses can take you.
You ought to make it in a week. I'll give you that long. Find Gary
Miller. Tell him I sent you, an' find out what he knows about young
Bill Bransford. Then hit the breeze back. If it takes you more than
two weeks I'll knock your damned heads off!"

CHAPTER IX

THE LITTLE MAN TALKS

Mary Bransford spent the first day of Sanderson's absence in the
isolation of the parlor, with the shades drawn, crying. Her brother
had bitterly disappointed her.

He had sent word by one of the men that he was going to Las Vegas to
look up the title to the property. She thought he might at least have
brought her the message personally.

Mary told herself that she had not been unduly demonstrative, as
Sanderson had intimated by his actions. She had merely been glad to
see him, as any sister would be glad to see a brother whom she had not
seen for many years; and she assured herself that if he loved her as
she loved him he would not have resented her display of affection.

That affection, though, troubled Mary. To be sure, she had never had a
brother about, to fuss over, and therefore she could not tell just how
deeply she should be expected to love the one whom Providence had given
her; but she was certain that she did not love him too much.

For Sanderson was worthy of the full measure of any sister's love.
Big, handsome, vigorous, with a way about him that any woman must
admire, Mary felt he deserved all the affection she could bestow.

Her wonder and perplexity came over a contemplation of the quality of
that love. Was it right that she should thrill so delightfully
whenever he came near her? And was it entirely proper for her to feel
that queer tingle of delight over the strangeness of it all?

And did that strangeness result from the fact that she had not seen him
for years; or was there some truth in Dale's assertion that she was
merely an adopted daughter, and her love for Sanderson not merely the
love of a sister for a brother, but the love of a woman for a man?

Had Sanderson taken that view of it? She thought he had; for she had
told him about Dale's assertion, and his constraint had begun shortly
after.

She did not blame him a great deal--after she had thought it over. He
had done the manly thing, she divined, in not taking advantage of the
situation, and she believed she loved him more than ever because of his
attitude. But she felt that she had lost something, and the second day
had gone before she succeeded in resigning herself to the new state of
affairs.

Nothing happened. Dale did not come near the ranchhouse. Mary rode
over to the Nyland ranch and had a long talk with Peggy, and Peggy told
her that she had not seen Dale.

Ben Nyland had driven the Double A cattle over to their own range, and
so far as he was concerned the incident with Dale was closed. But,
Peggy told Mary, Ben was bitterly resentful, and had sworn that if Dale
bothered Peggy any more he would kill him.

Mary, however, was not greatly interested in Peggy's recital. She sat
on a chair in the kitchen of the Nyland cabin, listening to Peggy, but
making no replies. And it was not until she was ready to go that Mary
revealed the real reason for her visit--and then she did not reveal it
to Peggy, but to her own heart.

For she reddened when she asked the question: "I wonder if you feel
about Ben as I feel about my brother--that when you kiss him you are
kissing a strange man?"

Peggy laughed. "You would feel that way, of course. For your brother
is almost a stranger to you."

"And do you kiss Ben often?" asked Mary.

"Ben doesn't like it," smiled Peggy. "He is like most other men--he
likes to kiss the daughters of other men, but he gets sulky and balky
when I want to kiss him. So I don't try very often. Your brother is a
fine, big fellow, but you will find before you have been around him
very long that he wants to do his kissing away from home."

Mary laughed, and blushed again. "I have already discovered that," she
said. "But, Peggy," she added seriously, "I love him so much that
believe I should be jealous if I thought he kissed another girl!"

Mary rode homeward, rather comforted over her visit. And during the
remaining days of Sanderson's absence she succeeded in convincing
herself that Sanderson's attitude toward her was the usual attitude of
brothers toward sisters, and that she had nothing of which to complain.

On the seventh day Sanderson and Owen returned.

Mary saw them ride in and she ran to the door and waved a hand to them.
Owen flourished his hat at her, but Sanderson only grinned.

When Sanderson came in Mary did not attempt to kiss him, but she wanted
to when he seized her hand and squeezed it warmly. For it seemed to
her that he was troubled over something.

She watched him narrowly for signs that would tell her of the nature of
the trouble, but when he went to bed she had learned nothing.

At breakfast the next morning she asked him what he had discovered at
Las Vegas. He looked straight at her.

"There is no record of your birth," he said.

She paled. "Then Dale has grounds for his suspicion," she said in a
weak voice.

"Because your birth was not recorded is no sign you are not a
Bransford," he said. "I'll tell you this," he added gruffly: "as a
sister you suit me from the ground up; an' I'll stick to you until hell
freezes over!"

Not until that instant did she realize that she had entertained a fear
that Sanderson would believe as Dale believed, and in an excess of joy
over the discovery that he did believe in her she got up, ran around
the table, seized Sanderson by the shoulders and laid her cheek against
his.

"You're a dear," she said, "and I don't care whether you like it or
not, I am going to kiss you!"

"Just once," he said, blushing.

She kissed him, and then leaned back, looking at him reprovingly.

"You haven't returned a kiss I have given you!" she said. "And I want
you to!"

"All right," he agreed, and this time the warmth of his response made
her draw a long, deep breath.

Sanderson made his escape as soon as he decently could, and walked to a
corner of the pasture fence where he stood, one arm resting on the top
rail, his gaze on the basin.

At the court in Las Vegas he had discovered that Bransford had made a
will, bequeathing the ranch to his son. The document had been recorded
only a few months before Bransford died, showing that he had at last
forgiven the boy.

Sanderson had intended to take possession of the ranch, in an effort to
forestall any scheme Dale might have, and while in Las Vegas he had
applied to the court for permission to have the title transferred. And
then he had been told it would be necessary for him to file an
affidavit and proof establishing his identity.

With Barney Owen looking on Sanderson was compelled to defer signing
the affidavit, for Sanderson remembered the letter from young
Bransford, bearing the younger Bransford's signature. The letter was
still in the dresser drawer in his room, and he would have to have it
beside him while he signed Bransford's name to the affidavit in order
to imitate Bransford's handwriting successfully. Therefore he asked
permission to take the affidavit home.

Pocketing the paper, after receiving the necessary permission,
Sanderson caught Owen looking at him with a smile. He scowled at the
little man.

"What's eatin' you?" he demanded.

"Curiosity," said the other. "Don't tell me you're too bashful to sign
your name in public."

They were mounting their horses when the little man spoke, and
Sanderson grinned coldly at him.

"You're a whole lot longer on talk than I like any of my friends to
be," he said.

"Then I'll cut out gassing promiscuous," grinned the latter.

Sanderson was troubled over the situation. To successfully keep Dale
from attacking his title to the ranch he must sign the affidavit and
return it to the court. He must imitate Will Bransford's signature to
prevent Mary Bransford from suspecting the deception--for at any time
she might decide to go to Las Vegas to look over the records there.

More, he must practice writing Bransford's signature until he could
imitate it without having to look at the original.

Determined to go to work at the deception instantly, Sanderson returned
to the ranchhouse, slipped into his room and locked the door, opened
the drawer and took out the package of letters.

The Bransford letter was missing! Half a dozen times he thumbed the
letters in the packages over before he would admit that the one for
which he was seeking was not there.

He stood for a time looking at the package of letters, bitterly
accusing himself. It was his own fault if the whole structure of
deception tumbled about his ears, for he should have taken the letter
when he had had an opportunity.

Mary Bransford had it, of course. The other letters, he supposed, she
cared less for than the one written by her brother.

For the twentieth time since his arrival at the ranch, Sanderson had an
impulse to ride away and leave Mary Bransford to fight the thing out
herself. But, as before, he fought down the impulse.

This time--so imbued was he with determination to heap confusion upon
Alva Dale's head--he stood in the center of the room, grinning
saturninely, fully resolved that if it must be he would make a complete
confession to the girl and stay at the Double A to fight Dale no matter
what Mary thought of him.

He might have gone to Mary, to ask her what had become of the letter.
He could have invented some pretext. But he would not; he would not
have her think he had been examining her letters. One thing he could
do without confessing that he had been prying--and he did it.

At dinner he remarked casually to Mary:

"I reckon you don't think enough of my letters put them away as
keepsakes?"

"Sanderson's or Bransford's?" she returned, looking at him with a smile.

"Both," he grinned.

"Well," she said, "I did keep both. But, as I told you before, I had
the Sanderson letter somewhere. I have been looking for it, but have
not been able to find it."

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