Charles Hanson Towne - The Bad Man

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THE BAD MAN

A Novel

by

CHARLES HANSON TOWNE

Based on the Play by Porter Emerson Browne

G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York and London
The Knickerbocker Press

1921

Copyright, 1921, by G. P. Putnam's Sons
Printed in the United States of America

[Illustration: HOLBROOK BLINN AS "THE BAD MAN."]

To

HOLBROOK BLINN

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I.--Wherein it is shown that a young American had the courage to come into
a new country; how fate played against him, and a neighbor looked longingly
at his ranch

II.--Wherein, far away, another man hears whispers of the wealth along the
border, and comes down to see about it

III.--Wherein Uncle Henry speaks his mind--as usual

IV.--Wherein "Red" reveals his heart, and Mrs. Quinn gives him good coffee
and good advice

V.--Wherein Gilbert Jones is worried, and Lucia Pell is asked to do an
impossible thing

VI.--Wherein an old love awakens, Pell reveals his true colors, a mortgage
is about to be foreclosed, the contents of a satchel are made known, Uncle
Henry springs a sensation, and Pell takes an option

VII.--Wherein Lucia sees treachery brewing, Pell proves himself a brute,
and an unexpected guest appears

VIII.--Wherein the bandit expounds a new philosophy, and makes marionettes
of the Americans

IX.--Wherein Uncle Henry chatters some more, there is an auction, and
things look black indeed

X.--Wherein an old friendship comes to life, Lopez learns a thing or two,
and finally makes a match

XI.--Wherein a man proves himself a craven, a shot rings out, and the bad
man explains one little hour

XII.--Wherein the bad man cannot understand the good man, and disappears;
and a dead man stirs

XIII.--Wherein an old situation seems about to be repeated, another shot is
fired, and the bad man comes back

XIV.--Wherein an old friend returns, and there is a joyful reunion

THE BAD MAN

CHAPTER I

WHEREIN IT IS SHOWN THAT A YOUNG AMERICAN HAD THE COURAGE TO COME INTO A
NEW COUNTRY; HOW FATE PLAYED AGAINST HIM, AND A NEIGHBOR LOOKED LONGINGLY
AT HIS RANCH

Looking back now, after so many months of struggle and foreboding, he
wondered how he had ever had the high courage to come to this strange
country. Had he been a few years older he would not have started forth--he
was sure of that now. But the flame of youth was in him, the sure sense
that he could conquer where others had miserably failed; and, like all
virile young Americans, he had love of adventure, and zest for the unknown
was in his blood. The glamour of Arizona lured him; the color of these
great hills and mountains he had come to love captivated him from the
first. It was as if a siren beckoned, and he had to follow.

For days he had been worried almost to the breaking point. Things had not
shaped themselves as he had planned. Event piled upon event, and now
disaster--definite disaster--threatened to descend upon him.

All morning, despite the intense heat, he had been about the ranch,
appraising this and that, mentally; pottering in the shed; looking at his
horses--the few that were left!--smiling at the thought of his wheezing
Ford, wondering just when he would clear out altogether.

Not that young Gilbert Jones was a pessimist. And yet he wasn't one of
those damnable Pollyanna optimists he so abominated--the kind who went
about saying continually that God was in His heaven and all was right with
the world. No, indeed! He was just a normal, regular fellow, ready to face
a difficult situation when it came about as the natural result of a series
of events. He saw the impending catastrophe as the logical finale of many
happenings--for some of which he was not in any way responsible.

Who could have foreseen the Great War, for instance? Surely _that_ was not
his fault! A pitiful archduke was murdered in a European city. He
remembered reading about it, and then instantly dismissing it from his mind
as of no consequence. He never connected himself with so remote an event.
Yet a few years later he, with many others, was fighting in France--a
lieutenant in the United States Army--just because a shot had been fired at
a man he had never heard of!

A strange world, he pondered, as he looked out over the blue hills, heavy
with heat, and meandering away to God knows where.

Then, surely it was no fault of his if the Government under which he lived
made no strenuous effort to stop the Mexican massacres of American citizens
all along the border. One firm word, one splendid gesture, and daring raids
would have ceased; and there would have been no menace of bandits
hereabouts. It would have been a country fit to live in. There would have
developed a feeling of permanence and peace, and a young chap could have
made his plans for the future with some sense of security and high
optimism. Surely they were entitled to protection--these brave boys and
stalwart sons of America who fearlessly took up claims, staked all, and
strove to make homes in this thrilling section along the borderland. They
were not mere adventurers; they were pioneers. They were of the best stuff
that America contained--clean-cut, clear-eyed, with level heads and high
hearts. Yet their own Government did not think enough of them to offer them
the sure protection they were entitled to.

Gilbert looked back on that distant day when he had gone up to Bisbee and
purchased four head of cattle, and brought them himself to this ranch he
had purchased, happy as only a fool is happy. Within a week they had
mysteriously disappeared.

Rumors of Mexican thieves and assassins had come to him, as they had come
to all the young land-owners along the line. He recalled how, after one
raid, in which a good citizen had been foully murdered in his bed, he had
called a meeting of the ranchers in their section, and with one voice they
agreed to send a protest to Washington.

They did so. Nothing happened. An aching silence followed. They wrote
again; and then one day a pale acknowledgment of their communication came
in one of those long and important-looking unstamped envelopes. It seemed
very official, very impressive. But mere looks never helped any cause. They
were not naive enough to expect the Secretary of State to come down in
person and see to the mending of things. But a platoon of soldiers--a
handful of troops--would have worked wonders. Jones always contended that
not a shot would have to be fired; no more deaths on either side would be
necessary. The mere presence of a few men in uniform would have the desired
effect. The bandits, now prowling about, would slink over the invisible
border to their own territory, and never be heard of again. Of that he felt
confident.

But no! Watchful waiting was the watchword--or the catchword. And the
eternal and infernal raids went on.

It was while they were having their community meeting that he had come to
know Jasper Hardy and his young daughter Angela, who occupied the next
ranch, about a mile and a half south of his. Before that he had been too
busy to bother about neighbors. "Red" Giddings, his foreman, had spoken
once or twice about "some nice folks down the line," but he hadn't heard
much of what he said. There were always a hundred and one odd jobs to be
done around the place--something was forever needing attention; and when
Uncle Henry wasn't grumbling about something, he was forcing his nephew to
play checkers or cribbage or cards with him. And, working so hard all day,
he was glad to turn in early at night. Social life, therefore--unless you
could call high words with a crabbed invalid a form of social life--didn't
come within Gilbert's ken. It was work, work, work, and the desire to make
good every moment for him.

But Hardy proved to be an aggressive fighter when the meeting took place,
and spoke in sharp tones of the Government's dilatoriness. He had come to
Arizona right after his wife's death in the East, and brought his only
daughter and a few servants with him. He seemed to have plenty of money,
and he was anxious lest the invading Mexicans should get any of it away
from him. His holdings, in the eight years since he had come to the border,
amounted to several thousand well-cultivated acres; and he looked like a
man who, when he set out to get anything, would get it. He had an
inordinate desire to grab up some more territory. Tall and thin, and
sharp-featured, as well as sharp-tongued, he resembled a hawk. It was
difficult to realize the fact that the pert and lovely little Angela--who
lived up to her name only once in a while!--was his own flesh and blood. It
was as incongruous as though a rose had grown on a beanstalk.

On their very first meeting, Gilbert had not been pleasantly impressed with
Hardy. But he soon saw that the man had a certain rugged strength, and
there was no doubt he had suffered from the depredations of Mexico's casual
visitors, and was ready to protect not only his own interests but those of
any newcomers. He seemed to have the spirit of fair-mindedness; and he
believed firmly in the possibilities of this magic land, particularly for
young men. "It's God's country," he told Gilbert on more than one occasion.
"Get into the soil all you can. Dig--and dig deep."

He said this over and over. It ran like a refrain through every
conversation he had with anyone. He preached the gospel of labor. And he
did work himself; there was no shadow of doubt as to that. He had struck
oil himself, and had made a goodly extra pile. Now, unknown to young Jones,
he was casting envious eyes on his ranch; and when the war came and Gilbert
went overseas in a burst of fine patriotism, and later came other
disasters, he was quick to snatch his opportunity.

Why go to Bisbee, he told Jones, to see who would take up his mortgage?
What were neighbors for, if not to come in handy in such unpleasant
emergencies? And he laughed.

The long and short of it was that Hardy took an option on Gilbert's
property, and held it at this very moment. It was better so, thought
Gilbert. Better to be foreclosed by a friendly neighbor, who might hesitate
to drive one out at the last moment, than under the thumb of some unknown
individual way down the valley.

Four years of it--and he had come to this! Well, he'd take his medicine
like a man. He had done his best, and no one could do more.

CHAPTER II

WHEREIN, FAR AWAY, ANOTHER MAN HEARS WHISPERS OF THE WEALTH ALONG THE
BORDER, AND COMES DOWN TO SEE ABOUT IT

Up North there was a man with a jaw like a rock, and hard, steel-gray eyes.
He had his fingers on the pulse of business, and employed agents everywhere
to serve his interests. His office in New York, in the heart of the great
financial district, was like a telephone exchange--he the central who
controlled the wires, put in and drew out the plugs, and played the
fascinating game of connecting himself with any "party" he thought worth
while. A shrewd, inveterate gambler, he was without scruples. He lived for
one purpose: to make money. For one person: Morgan Pell.

There had been whispers concerning his methods. They were often
questionable, to say the least; but, like all men who work quietly beneath
the surface of the world of business, Pell covered up his tracks with as
much genius as he displayed in consummating a big deal. There should be no
loose ends if he was ever charged with corruption. Down in his soul he knew
he was a coward. He could not face disgrace, any more than he could face
the guns of battle. If his pillow was not always a restful one at night; if
he tossed more than he should at his age--he was but thirty-eight--no one
knew it. His conscience smote him now and then. In his earlier days he had
tricked a widow and caused her to be separated from her last penny.
Afterwards, he learned she had committed suicide. He shuddered. In fact, he
suffered a little for two long years. Then he forgot about her. Life was
life, and though it played unfairly with some, to others it gave beds of
roses; and after all we were but puppets of fate, and each must take his
chances, and not complain if he did not hold the winning hand. There were
only so many to go around. A lottery--that's what it was. And just as
people left a card table, a few widows and orphans had to clear out of the
big gambling-hall of life. It was as plain as day.

To a man like Pell, a wife was a necessity--but only a secondary
consideration. Of course he must marry, keep up an expensive menage, and
prove to the world that he was successful even where women were concerned.
He must give his wife the proper background, do all the necessary things;
furnish the right setting for his jewel. Children? Bah! They were not
essential. He had no paternal instinct whatever. Enough that he should
support in luxury and affluence the woman he deigned to make his wife, and
entertain in his home the people who could and would be of use to him.

Every least act of his life was arranged, specifications written, plans
drawn, and blueprints made. One day he decided that he wished a beautiful
Italian villa on the north shore of Long Island. He pressed a button,
ordered his secretary to get in touch immediately with his architect; and a
half-hour later the latter was at his desk ready to talk of the nebulous
house. Within twenty-four hours he had arranged everything--not a detail
was forgotten.

That is how he did things. He set out to find a wife in the same
matter-of-fact manner. He met many women; but Lucia Fennell was the only
one who set his pulse beating a little faster. He felt it a shame that he
should be so weak. They were at a dinner-party at the country home of a
mutual friend.

It was her eyes that held him first. He had never seen quite such
eyes--blue, with a curious depth that spoke of many things--the eyes of a
girl who, had he been wiser, he would have known had been in love before.
This was the type of woman who never loved but once, and then with all her
strength beyond her own high dreams of what love should be. But though Pell
could appraise men, judge them swiftly and surely, he was a fool where a
girl was concerned. He had never spent much time on them. Frankly, they
bored him. He liked far better the subtle game of finance. He had no
finesse in a world of women, and he would have been the easiest possible
prey of an adventuress.

But Lucia was far from that. Of the best family, with old traditions, she
moved among the set she wished; but society, so called, did not appeal to
her. She preferred people with brains rather than the idle rich; and she
had traveled a great deal, and known the world in strange places. She was
very young when she met the one man of all men for her. Like all women of
great beauty she had known many men who were infatuated with her. Those
gifts and attentions which are the rightful dower of every charming girl
were hers in abundance; and she received them as a queen might have done
from subjects hardly worthy to sit beside her. Then she met--one man.

It was during a trip she had made with her aunt through New England. He was
poor. To her, that made no difference. She would have gone with him to the
ends of the earth. The flame had touched her heart; she was a victim, like
many another; and when her lover, too proud to ask her to share his poverty
with her, stayed behind when she went back to New York, and failed to write
to her, she almost died of grief. But life had to be faced. One word from
her--she, too, was proud,--and there might have been a different story to
tell. But with the foolish self-consciousness of lovers, each failed the
other in the great moment that would have sealed their destinies.

Lucia determined that this broken affair should not wreck her existence.
But she brooded long, in secret, and would go nowhere. Her aunt, with whom
she lived, could not rouse her for many months to a sense of the vivid
world around her. She would see no one.

Two years later Morgan Pell came into her life, at almost the first dinner
she had attended during a long period of time. His impulsiveness, his
assurance, his faith in himself and his power to win her, swept her
temporarily off her feet. At their second meeting he asked her to become
his wife. Why not? She would never love anyone; but she could not go to the
altar with him unless she told him the truth. She did not love him. Was he
willing to take her, knowing this?

He was. Love meant little to him--though he did not say so. He was just
wise enough to keep that secret within himself.

"I'll make you love me," he told her, with all the ardor he could put into
his voice. Few women can withstand that age-old phrase.

There followed a time of utter disillusion for her. The great house on the
Avenue proved to be but four bleak walls; and when the villa on Long Island
was built, she tried to be as enthusiastic as Morgan wanted her to be. He
lavished gifts upon her. He brought out gay house-parties for weekends.
Lucia did her best to keep her part of a bad bargain. She made herself
lovely, and Pell was proud of her physical charms. The jewel was worth the
finest settings, and these he supplied, with no thought of the cost. He had
someone at the head of his table of whom he was very proud. The world need
never know the solemnity of their lives when the curtain was lowered and
they were alone together. After all, many marriages were like this. Theirs
was by no means an exceptional case; and he experienced a curious secret
joy in the fact that he knew other men envied him his wife, and wondered at
his power to hold her.

And so the months rolled by, with a trip abroad now and then to relieve the
tedium of existence. For a woman to know that she comes to be tolerated
only because she is decorative, is a consummating blow. Pell soon reached
the point where he told Lucia he had bought her, body and soul. He had
determined to win her love. When he saw that he could not, he swiftly
forgot the integrity of her part of the bargain, the honesty of her words
to him before they were married; and he practised subtle cruelties to tame
her and bring her at last to him.

He began to drink too much. Only a certain pride in his business affairs,
the desire to keep a level head, a clear brain, kept him from sinking
definitely to the gutter. He became irritable with her. Nothing she did
pleased him. He found he could not wound her sufficiently when he was
sober; so he fortified himself with alcohol, gained courage to speak flat
truths, and left her alone for days at a time, thinking such absences were
a punishment.

Had he but known it, they were the only bright oases in her monotonous
life. She blessed those hours when he mercifully remained away on the
pretext of business. What he did gave her little concern.

Once she ventured to talk frankly with him about the wisdom of a legal
separation. It was foolish to go on in this way. It was dishonest; it was
the only immorality.

He laughed her to scorn. "You're too useful to me, my dear," he sneered. He
always added that "my dear" to any statement when he wished to be
thoroughly sarcastic.

He was conscious that certain captains of business would not have come so
frequently to his home if Lucia had not been there to dispense a supposedly
gracious hospitality. Let her go? Lose all this? Not at all! He brutally
told her so again and again. And finally she made up her mind, for the sake
of peace, that she would merely remain the flower under glass, if that was
his desire. Arguments were of no avail. In a sense, she was beaten.

The opera, books, travel, a few good friends--those that Morgan allowed
her to keep--these filled her days.

One evening she was particularly surprised when he said to her, casually:

"How would you like a little trip out West? You look peaked. Maybe it would
set you up."

"Why--it sounds nice, Morgan," she answered. "Is it business, or--" Her
sense of humor made it impossible for her to bring out the word "pleasure."

"Of course it's business," he replied. "Precious little else I get." They
were dining alone, at home, and he motioned the butler to refill his glass
with champagne.

She wondered at his suggestion. There must be something behind it. But as a
matter of fact she was tired of Long Island, and if she could kill a few
weeks--maybe a few months--in the West, she would willingly go.

"Sturgis telegraphed me that there was a big possibility of a new vein of
oil down on the border," Pell was telling her. "Some important men want to
talk things over with me at Bisbee. I want to get started in a day or two.
Don't take your maid. It's a rough country, but you'll be all right. Just
old clothes. You can ride a lot, so bring your habit. I'll be busy most of
the time; but I think you'll like the trip. Never been down that way, have
you?"

"No," she said. "And I've always wanted to go."

"Not afraid of bandits?" he laughed, sipping his champagne. "It's right
next door to Mexico, you know. Have some swell times down there, they say."

She laughed too. "How exciting," she said. She grew almost jubilant at the
prospect of the journey. She knew she would probably be "shown off" to the
important men; and that touched her vanity--what little she had left by
now.

"They tell me it's God's country, with big chances for everyone. I want to
add to our little pile, Lucia," Pell went on. He hoped she would get the
significance of the "our."

"You're too good to me, Morgan," she said, and meant it. "But why do we
need any more money? We've got everything now."

"Everything?" he said, significantly; and his eyes became two narrow slits
as he looked at her.

She toyed with her salad. She hoped he was not going to get into one of his
fiendishly unpleasant moods.

"Well," she ventured, "as much as anyone could reasonably want. This house,
the garden, friends--"

"Yes," he sneered, "but not much love." The butler had tactfully withdrawn.
"Why don't you love me, Lucia?"

"I do--in a way. Oh, let's don't go into all that again, Morgan. We've had
it out so many times. What's the use?"

"Is there anyone else?" he asked. "If I thought there was...." He lifted
his glass again.

"You know there isn't," she protested.

He appraised her across the table, beautiful in a blue gown which just
matched her eyes, her throat adorned with a string of pearls he had given
her on the anniversary of their marriage.

"I don't see how a woman as lovely as you can be so cold," he said. "You
could do anything with men."

She tried to smile. "But I don't want to. Women--good women--don't like to
play with fire. It's only adventuresses who dare to face danger.... But
let's talk about Arizona. How good it will be to get out of this hothouse
of the East, and see real people--real flesh-and-blood men and women."

"Yes. The folks down there know more about life in a day than we do in all
our pitiful lives. You've got to live close to nature to understand human
nature. Simple, isn't it?"

"Very. We're all so false up here. I get so tired of it, Morgan. Maybe down
there we'll come to a better understanding of each other. Maybe...."

"That's what I was hoping. So you'd like to go--really?"

"Yes, indeed. It'll be hot, that's all. But I won't mind that. Anything to
get away for awhile."

Two days later they had started. The land was green with early summer, in
that rich fullness which makes the heart almost sick with ecstasy. The
farther west they went, the wilder the country grew; and when they finally
dipped down into Arizona, Lucia looked from the train window, her face
alight with joy. Such scenic variety she had never dreamed of. One moment
they were looking at the wonderful mesas and superb canyons; the next they
seemed to pass through dry gullies and great shallow basins. Then there
would come long, weary levels of sand that gleamed in the sun; and far away
she would behold tremendous buttes. The valleys they passed through were
verdant and lovely. Cattle grazed here in a calm peace. It was as if the
rest of the world were shut out, and in this quiet land a special blessing
had come down. The peace of it, the stillness of it crowded in upon her.
She had been to California, but always she had traveled by a northern
route, and had missed the wonder of this part of the world. Before their
journey was over, she had begged Morgan to take her to the Grand Canyon;
and for two days they remained there, drinking in the glory of perhaps the
most beautiful spot on the western continent. She could not get enough of
it--those colors that sank into her heart and consciousness and made her
think she was in paradise. To see the sun rise here--she almost wept that
morning when the lord of heaven came over the mountains that towered like
huge sentinels, impervious to wind and gale and rain.

"I can't stand such beauty, Morgan," she said at last. "It takes something
out of me. We'll have to go on."

She saw the giant cactus in full bloom, a miracle of orange, pink, and
crimson; and as they sped south the mountainsides were aflame with juniper
and manzanita.

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