Charles Alden Seltzer - Square Deal Sanderson
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Charles Alden Seltzer >> Square Deal Sanderson
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Sanderson grinned faintly and wondered what she would say if she knew
what care he had taken to burn the Sanderson letter.
"The letter you wrote as yourself--the Bransford letter--I have. It
was among a lot of others in the drawer of the dresser in your room. I
was looking them over while you were gone, and I took it."
Sanderson had a hard time to keep the eagerness out of his voice, but
he did so:
"You got it handy?"
She looked straight at him. "That is the oddest thing," she said
seriously. "I took it from there to keep it safe, and I have mislaid
it again, for I can't find it anywhere."
There was no guile in her eyes--Sanderson was certain of that. And he
hoped the letter would stay mislaid. He grinned.
"Well, I was only curious," he said. "Don't bother to look for it."
He felt better when he went out of the house and walked toward the
corral fence. He felt more secure and capable. Beginning with the
following day, he meant to take charge of the ranch and run it as he
knew it should be run.
He had not been at the Double A long, but he had seen signs of
shiftlessness here and there. He had no doubt that since Bransford's
death the men had taken advantage of the absence of authority to relax,
and the ranch had suffered. He would soon bring them back to a state
of efficiency.
He heard a step behind him, and looking over his shoulder he saw the
little man approaching.
The little man joined Sanderson, not speaking as he climbed the fence
at a point near by and sat on the top rail, idly swinging his legs.
Sanderson had conceived a liking for Owen. There was something about
the little man that invited it. He was little, and manly despite his
bodily defects. But there was a suggestion of effeminacy mingling with
the manliness of him that aroused the protective instinct in Sanderson.
In a big man the suggestion of effeminacy would have been disgusting,
and Sanderson's first action as owner of the ranch would have been to
discharge such a man instantly. But in Sanderson's heart had come a
spirit of tolerance toward the little man, for he felt that the
effeminacy had resulted from his afflictions.
He was a querulous semi-invalid, trying bravely to imitate his vigorous
and healthy friends.
"Thinking it over?" he queried, looking down at Sanderson.
"Thinkin' what over?"
"Well, just things," grinned the little man. "For one thing, I suppose
you are trying to decide why you didn't sign your name--over in Las
Vegas."
Sanderson grinned mildly, but did not answer. He felt more at ease
now, and the little man's impertinences did not bother him so much as
formerly. He looked up, however, startled, when Owen said slowly:
"Do you want me to tell you why you didn't sign Will Bransford's name
to the affidavit?"
Sanderson's eyes did not waver as they met Owen's.
"Tell me," he said evenly.
"Because you are not Will Bransford," said the little man.
Sanderson did not move; nor did he remove his gaze from the face of the
little man. He was not conscious of any emotion whatever. For now
that he had determined to stay at the Double A no matter what happened,
discovery did not alarm him. He grinned at the little man,
deliberately, with a taunting smile that the other could not fail to
understand.
"You're a wise guy, eh?" he said. "Well, spring it. I'm anxious to
know how you got next to me."
"You ain't sore, then?"
"Not, none."
"I was hoping you wouldn't be," eagerly said the little man, "for I
don't want you to hit the breeze just now. I know you are not Will
Bransford because I know Bransford intimately. I was his chum for
several years. He could drink as much as I. He was lazy and
shiftless, but I liked him. We were together in Tucson--and in other
places in Arizona. Texas, too. We never amounted to much. Do you
need to know any more? I can tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"More," grinned the other man, "about yourself. You are
Sanderson--Deal Sanderson--nicknamed Square Deal Sanderson. I saw you
one day in Tombstone; you were pointed out to me, and the minute I laid
my eyes on you the day Dale tried to hang Nyland, I knew you."
Sanderson smiled. "Why didn't you tell Mary?"
The little man's face grew grave. "Because I didn't want to queer your
game. You saved Nyland--an innocent man. Knowing your reputation for
fairness, I was convinced that you didn't come here to deceive anybody."
"But I did deceive somebody," said Sanderson. "Not you, accordin' to
what you've been tellin' me, but Mary Bransford. She thinks I am her
brother, an' I've let her go on thinkin' it."
"Why?" asked the little man.
Sanderson gravely appraised the other. "There ain't no use of holdin'
out anything on you," he said. His lips straightened and his eyes
bored into the little man's. There was a light in his own that made
the little man stiffen. And Sanderson's voice was cold and earnest.
"I'm puttin' you wise to why I've not told her," he went on. "But if
you ever open your yap far enough to whisper a word of it to her I'm
wringin' your neck, _pronto_! That goes!"
He told Owen the story from the beginning--about the Drifter, his
letter to the elder Bransford, how he had killed the two men who had
murdered Will Bransford, and how, on the impulse of the moment, he had
impersonated Mary's brother.
"What are you figuring to do now?" questioned the little man when
Sanderson finished.
"I'm tellin' her right now," declared Sanderson. "She'll salivate me,
most likely, for me lettin' her kiss me an' fuss over me. But I ain't
carin' a heap. I ain't never been no hand at deceivin' no one--I ain't
foxy enough. There's been times since I've been here when I've been
scared to open my mouth for fear my damned heart would jump out. I
reckon she'll just naturally kill me when she finds it out, but I don't
seem to care a heap whether she does or not."
The little man narrowed his eyes at Sanderson.
"You're deeply in love with her, I suppose?"
Sanderson flushed; then his gaze grew steady and cold. "Up till now
you've minded your own business," he said. "If you'll keep on mindin'
it, we'll----"
"Of course," grinned Owen. "You couldn't help loving her--I love her,
too. You say you're going to tell her. Don't do it. Why should you?
Don't you see that if you told her that her brother had been murdered
she'd never get over it? She's that kind. And you know what Dale's
scheme was, don't you? Has she told you?" At Sanderson's nod, Owen
went on:
"If you were to let it be known that you are not Will Bransford, Dale
would get the property as sure as shooting. I know his plan. I
overheard him and a man named Dave Silverthorn talking it over one
night when I was prowling around Dale's house. The window of Dale's
office was wide open, and I was crouching outside.
"They've got a man ready to come on here to impersonate Bransford.
They would prove his claim and after he was established he would sell
out to them. They have forged papers showing that Mary is an adopted
daughter--though not legally. Don't you see that if you don't go on
letting everybody think you are Bransford, Mary will lose the ranch?"
Sanderson shook his head. "I'd be gettin' deeper an' deeper into it
all the time--in love an' in trouble. An' when she'd find out how I'd
fooled her all the time she'd hate me."
"Not if you save the ranch for her," argued the little man. "She'd
feel badly about her brother, maybe, but she'd forgive you if you
stayed and beat Dale at his own game."
Sanderson did not answer. The little man climbed down from the fence
and moved close to him, talking earnestly, and at last Sanderson
grinned down at him.
"I'm doing it," he said. "I'll stay. I reckon I was figurin' on it
all the time."
CHAPTER X
PLAIN TALK
Barney Owen had told Sanderson of his hatred for Alva Dale, but he had
not told Sanderson many other things. He had not told the true story
of how he came to be employed at the Double A--how Mary had come upon
him one day at a shallow crossing of the river, far down in the basin.
Owen was flat on his stomach at the edge of the water, scooping it up
with eager handfuls to quench a thirst that had endured for days. He
had been so weak that he could not stand when she found him, and in
some way she got him on his horse and brought him to the ranchhouse,
there to nurse him until he recovered his strength.
It had been while she was caring for him that she had told him about
her fear of Dale, and thereafter--as soon as he was able to ride
again--Owen took it upon himself to watch Dale.
In spite of his exceeding slenderness, Owen seemed to possess the
endurance and stamina of a larger and more physically perfect man. For
though he was always seen about the ranchhouse during the day--helping
at odd jobs and appearing to be busy nearly all the time--each
succeeding night found him stealthily mounting his horse to ride to the
Bar D, there to watch Dale's movements.
He had not been at the Bar D since the night before the day on which he
had left with Sanderson to go to Las Vegas, but on the second night
following his return--soon after dark--he went to the stable, threw
saddle and bridle on his horse, and vanished into the shadows of the
basin.
Later, moving carefully, he appeared at the edge of a tree clump near
the Bar D corral. He saw a light in one of the windows of the
house--Dale's office--and he left his horse in the shadows and stole
forward. There were two men in the office with Dale. Owen saw them
and heard their voices as he crept to a point under the window in the
dense blackness of the night.
The men Dale had sent to Tucson had not required the full two weeks for
the trip; they had made it in ten days, and their faces, as they sat
before Dale in the office, showed the effects of their haste. Yet they
grinned at Dale as they talked, glowing with pride over their
achievement, but the word they brought to Dale did not please him, and
he sat glaring at them until they finished.
"Gary Miller ain't been heard of for a month, eh?" he said. "You say
you heard he started this way? Then where in hell is he?"
Neither of the men could answer that question and Dale dismissed them.
Then he walked to a door, opened it, and called to someone in another
room. Dave Silverthorn entered the office, and for more than an hour
the two talked, their conversation being punctuated with futile queries
and profanity.
At ten o'clock the next morning Dale appeared at the Double A
ranchhouse. Apparently he was willing to forgive and forget, for he
grinned at Owen, who was watching him from the door of the bunkhouse,
and he politely doffed his hat to Mary Bransford, who met him at the
door of the ranchhouse.
"Well, Miss Mary," he said, "how does it feel to have a brother again?"
"It's rather satisfying, Dale," smiled the girl. "Won't you get off
your horse?"
The girl's lips were stiff with dread anticipation and dislike. Dale's
manner did not mislead her; his forced geniality, his gruff heartiness,
his huge smile, were all insincere, masking evil. He seemed to her
like a big, tawny, grinning beast, and her heart thumped with
trepidation as she looked at him.
"How's Nyland?" he asked, smiling hugely. "That was a narrow
squeak--now, wasn't it? For I found that Ben Nyland didn't brand them
cattle at all--it was another man, living down the basin. That nester
near Colby's. He done it. But he sloped before we could get a rope on
him. Had a grudge against Nyland, I reckon. Sorry it happened."
Thus he attempted to smooth the matter over. But he saw that Mary did
not believe him, and his grin grew broader.
"Where's brother Will this mornin', Mary?" he said.
Sanderson appeared in the doorway behind Mary.
"You could see him if you was half lookin'," he said slowly.
"So I could," guffawed Dale. "But if there's a pretty girl around----"
"You come here on business, Dale?" interrupted Sanderson. "Because if
you did," he went on before Dale could answer, "I'd be glad to get it
over."
"Meanin' that you don't want me to be hangin' around here no longer
than is necessary, eh?" said Dale.
"You've said a heap," drawled Sanderson.
"Well, it won't take a long time," Dale returned. "It's just this.
I've got word from Las Vegas that you've swore to an affidavit sayin'
that you're Will Bransford. That's all right--I ain't got nothin' to
say about that. But there's a law about brands.
"Your dad registered his brand--the Double A. But that don't let you
out. Accordin' to the law you've got to do your registerin' same as
though the brand had never been registered before. Bein' the only law
around here--me bein' a deputy sheriff--I've got to look out for that
end of it.
"An' so, if you'll just sign this here blank, with your name and
address, specifyin' your brand, why, we'll call it all settled."
And he held out a legal-looking paper toward Sanderson.
Sanderson's lips straightened, for as his eyes met Dale's he saw the
latter's glint with a cold cunning. For an instant Sanderson
meditated, refusing to accept the paper, divining that Dale was
concealing his real purpose; but glancing sidewise he caught a swift
wink from Owen, who had drawn near and was standing beside a porch
column. And he saw Owen distinctly jerk his head toward the house.
Sanderson stepped forward and took the paper from Dale's hand. Then he
abruptly strode toward the house, telling Dale to wait.
Sanderson halted in the middle of the sitting-room as Owen entered the
room through, a rear door. Barney Owen was grinning.
"Wants your signature, does he?" said Owen. He whispered rapidly to
Sanderson, and the latter's face grew pale and grim as he listened.
When Owen had finished he grinned.
"Now we'll give him Will Bransford's signature--just as he used to
write it. I've seen it more times than any other man ever saw it, and
I can duplicate it to a flourish. Give me the paper!"
He sat down at a table, where there was a pen and a bottle of ink and
wrote boldly: "Will Bransford." With a grin he passed the paper back.
Sanderson stared, then a smile wreathed his lips, for the signature was
seemingly a duplicate of that which had been written at the bottom of
the letter Will Bransford had written to his father.
On his way to return the paper to Dale, Sanderson paused to listen
again to Owen, who whispered to him. Sanderson stiffened, looked hard
at Owen, and then grinned with straight lips. In less than no time he
was out of the house and confronting Dale.
He watched while the latter looked at the signature; he saw the
expression of disappointment that swept over Dale's face. Then
Sanderson spoke coldly:
"Right and proper, eh, Dale? Now I'll trouble you for that letter that
my dad dropped about a year ago--the one you picked up. It was a
letter from me, an' dad had let you read it. Fork it over, or I'll
bore you an' take it from your clothes!"
CHAPTER XI
THE ULTIMATUM
Dale's face whitened; for a moment he sat rigid, staring, his eyes
boring into Sanderson's. Then he reached into a pocket, drew out a
dirty envelope, and threw it at Sanderson's feet.
"You're a damned smart boy, ain't you, Bransford?" he sneered. "But
I'm out to get you--remember that!"
"And you remember this, Dale!"
Sanderson was at the head of the horse Dale rode. His eyes were
blazing with suppressed fury, brought on by the other's threat.
"There's goin' to be a new deal in the basin. From now on I'm runnin'
things--an' they're runnin' square! I ain't got any use for any law
but this!" He tapped the butt of his six-shooter significantly. "An'
if you go to gettin' mixed up with the Double A or the Nyland ranch
you'll get it--plenty!"
Dale grinned, hideously. Then he kicked his horse in the ribs and rode
away.
Mary Bransford had not moved from her position on the porch. Sanderson
watched Dale ride away, then he smiled at Mary and entered the house.
Mary followed him. She saw Owen standing in the sitting-room, and her
face showed her surprise.
Sanderson explained. "Owen an' me framed up on Dale," he said. "You
saw it work."
"You'll be careful, won't you, Will?" she said.
"Deal," smilingly insisted Sanderson.
"Deal," she repeated, giving him a look that made him blush. Then she
went into one of the other rooms, and Sanderson and Owen went outside.
At the corner of the stable Sanderson halted and faced Owen.
"You've got some explainin' to do," he said. "How did you know Dale
had a letter from Will Bransford to his father; an' how did you know
that Dale wanted me to write my name on that brand-registering blank so
he could compare it with Will Bransford's name on the letter?"
"Will Bransford told me he wrote such a letter; he showed me a letter
from his dad which told how he had dropped Will's letter and how Dale
had picked it up. Dale thought old Bransford hadn't seen him pick up
the letter--but Bransford did see him. And last night I was snooping
around over at the Bar D and I overheard Dale and Silverthorn cooking
up this deal."
Sanderson grinned with relief. "Well," he said, "that name-signing
deal sure had me considerable fussed up." He told Owen of his mental
torture following the discovery of the letter that had disappeared from
the dresser drawer. "We've got to run together from now on," he told
Owen. "I'll be Bransford an' you'll be Bransford's name. Mebbe
between us we'll make a whole man."
Over at the Bar D, Dale was scowling at Silverthorn.
"He ain't Will Bransford," Dale declared. "He signed his name all O.K.
an' regular, just the same as it was on the letter. But just the same
he ain't a Bransford. There ain't no Bransford ever had an eye in him
like he's got. He's a damned iceberg for nerve, an' there's more fight
in him than there is in a bunch of wildcats--if you get him started!"
"Just the same," smiled Silverthorn, silkily, "we'll get the Double A.
Look here--" And the two bent their heads together over Dale's desk.
CHAPTER XII
DALE MOVES
A passionate hatred of Alva Dale was slowly gripping Sanderson. It had
been aroused on that first day of his meeting with the man, when he had
seen Dale standing in front of the stable, bullying Mary Bransford and
Peggy Nyland and her brother. At that time, however, the emotion
Sanderson felt had been merely dislike--as Sanderson had always
disliked men who attempted to bully others.
Sanderson's hatred of Dale was beginning to dominate him; it was
overwhelming all other emotions. It dulled his sense of guilt for the
part he was playing in deceiving Mary Bransford; it made him feel in a
measure justified in continuing to deceive her.
For he divined that without his help Mary would lose the Double A.
Sanderson had always loved a fight, and the prospect of bringing defeat
and confusion upon Dale was one that made his pulses leap with delight.
He got up on the morning following Dale's visit, tingling with
eagerness. And yet there was no sign of emotion in his face when he
sat with Mary Bransford at breakfast, and he did not even look at her
when he left the house, mounted his horse, and rode up the gorge that
split the butte at the southern end of the range.
All morning he prowled over the table-land, paying a great deal of
attention to the depth of the gorge, estimating its capacity for
holding water, scanning the far reaches of the big basin carefully, and
noting the location of the buildings dotting it.
Shortly after noon he rode back to the house and came upon Mary in the
kitchen.
"I've put off askin' until now," he said while eating the food that
Mary placed before him. "How much money did dad leave?"
"Not much," she said. "He was never very prosperous. It took a great
deal to send me to school, and the thousand I sent you I saved myself
out of the allowance he gave me. I think there are three thousand
dollars to father's credit at the bank in Okar."
"Where's Okar?"
She looked quickly at him. "Don't you remember Okar? That little town
just beyond the mouth of the basin? Why, you've been there a good many
times, Will, on errands for father. There wasn't much to Okar when you
were here--just a few shanties and a store. Surely you remember!"
Sanderson flushed. "I reckon I do remember, now that you speak of it,"
he lied. "But I don't think Okar has grown much."
"Okar has grown to be an important town--for this locality," Mary
smiled. "You see, the railroad has made it grow. It is now quite
large, and has a bank and a dozen or more stores. It is a depot for
supplies for a big section, and the railroad company has built large
corrals there. A man named Silverthorn--and Alva Dale--are the rulers
of Okar, now."
"Who is Silverthorn?"
"He is connected with the railroad company--a promoter, or something of
that character. He is trying to make a boom town of Okar. He has
bought a great deal of land in the basin."
"You know what he wants the land for?" Sanderson smiled at her.
"For speculation purposes, I suppose. If he could get water----"
"You've figured it out," said Sanderson. "But he won't get water. The
water belongs to the Double A--to me an' to you. An' we're goin' to
sell it ourselves."
"You mean--" began Mary.
"That we're going to build an irrigation dam--with all the fixin's.
You and me."
The girl sat erect, her eyes luminous and eager. "Do you think we can
do it?" she whispered.
"Do you think you could trust me with the three thousand you said dad
left? An' would you be willin' to mortgage the Double A--if we needed
more money?"
"Why," she declared, breathlessly, "the Double A is yours--to do with
as you see fit. If you want to try--and you think there is a chance to
win--why, why--go to it!"
"You're a brick!" grinned Sanderson. "We'll start the ball to rollin'
right away."
Sanderson could not escape the vigorous hug she gave him, but he did
manage to evade her lips, and he went out of the house blushing and
grinning.
It was late in the afternoon when he got to Okar. Barney Owen was with
him. The two rode into town, dismounted at a hitching rail in front of
a building across the front of which was a sign:
THE OKAR HOTEL
Okar was flourishing--as Mary Bransford said. At its northwestern
corner the basin widened, spreading between the shoulders of two
mountains and meeting a vast stretch of level land that seemed to be
endless.
Okar lay at the foot of the mountain that lifted its bald knob at the
eastern side of the basin's mouth. Two glittering lines of steel that
came from out of the obscurity of distance eastward skirted Okar's
buildings and passed westward into an obscurity equally distant.
The country around Okar was devoted to cattle. Sanderson's practiced
eye told him that. The rich grassland that spread from Okar's confines
was the force that had brought the town into being, and the railroad
would make Okar permanent.
Okar did not look permanent, however. It was of the type of the
average cow-town of the western plains--artificial and crude. Its
buildings were of frame, hurriedly knocked together, representing the
haste of a people in whom the pioneer instinct was strong and
compelling--who cared nothing for appearances, but who fought mightily
for wealth and progress.
Upon Okar was the stamp of newness, and in its atmosphere was the
eagerness and the fervor of commercialism. Okar was the trade mart of
a section of country larger than some of the Old World states.
Fringing the hitching rails in front of its buildings were various
vehicles--the heavy wagons of Mexican freighters, the light buckboard
of the cattleman, and the prairie schooner of the homesteader.
Mingling with the vehicles were the cow-ponies of horsemen who had
ridden into town on various errands; and in the company corrals were
many cattle awaiting shipment.
Sanderson stood beside his horse at the hitching rail for a look at
Okar.
There was one street--wide and dust-windrowed, with two narrow board
walks skirting it. The buildings--mostly of one story--did not
interest Sanderson, for he had seen their kind many times, and his
interest centered upon the people.
"Different from Tombstone," he told Owen as the two entered the hotel.
"Tombstone is cattle--Okar is cattle and business. I sort of like
cattle better."
Owen grinned. "Cattle are too slow for some of Okar's men," he said.
"There's men here that figure on making a killing every
day--financially. Gamblers winning big stakes, supply dealers charging
twenty times the value of their stuff; a banker wanting enormous
interest on his money; the railroad company gobbling everything in
sight--and Silverthorn and Dale framing up to take all the land and the
water-rights. See that short, fat man playing cards with the little
one at that table?"
He indicated a table near the rear of the barroom, visible through an
archway that opened from the room in which a clerk with a thin, narrow
face and an alert eye presided at a rough desk.
"That's Maison--Tom Maison, Okar's banker. They tell me he'd skin his
grandmother if he thought he could make a dollar out of the deal."
Owen grinned. "He's the man you're figuring to borrow money from--to
build your dam."
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