sinner, how dare you appear before me again without that stinger?”
Mose, the aged coloured porter of the Engineers' Club, flashed a row of ivories and respectfully re-turned the democratic greeting.
“Letter for you, suh. The secretary told me to give it to you, Mistah Webster.”
“Thank you, Mose. Speak up, Neddy, and tell me something. Ever hear anything of Billy Geary?” He was tearing the edge of the envelope the while he gazed at Jerome, who was rubbing his fat hands together after the fashion of elderly men who are well pleased with themselves.
“You have a chance to become one of the greatest and richest mining engineers in the world, Jack,” he answered, “now that you've cut loose from that young crook Geary. I don't know what's become of him, and neither does anybody else. For that matter, nobody cares.”
“I do—and you can take the brief end of that bet for your last white chip. Don't let me hear you or anybody else say anything against Billy Geary. That boy goes for my money, every turn in the box. Don't make any mistakes about that, old-timer.”
Webster's face suddenly was serious; the bantering intonation in his voice was gone, and a new, slightly strident note had crept into it. But Jerome, engrossed in his own affairs, failed to observe the menace in that swift transition of mood in his companion. He waved his hand soothingly.
“All right, old Johnny Pepper-box, have it your own way. Nevertheless, I'm a little mystified. The last I knew of you two, you had testified against him in the high-grader trials at Cripple Creek, and he had pulled out under a cloud, even after his acquittal.”
“Give a dog a bad name, and it will stick to him,” Webster retorted. “Of course I testified against him. As engineer for the Mine Owners' Association, I had to. The high-grade ore was found in his assay office, and the circumstantial evidence was complete, and I admit Billy was acquitted merely because I and others could not swear positively that the ore came from any certain mine. It was the same old story, Neddy. It's become history in all mining camps. You can be morally certain that high-grade ore has been stolen from your mine, but unless you catch the ore thief in the act, how can you prove it? High-grade ore is blind goods and is not confined to any certain man-owned spot on this wicked earth—so there you are! I suppose you read the newspaper reports and believed them, just as everybody else does.”
“Well, forget it, Jack. It's all over long ago, and forgotten.”
“It wasn't all over so long ago as you seem to think. I suppose you knew the Holman gang was afterward sent to the penitentiary for those same high-grade operations?”
“Yes.”
“But I'll bet my new plug hat you never knew I was the Hawkshaw that sent them there! You bet I was! Billy Geary's acquittal didn't end my interest in the case—not by a jugful! I fought the case against the friends of the Holman crew among the mine owners themselves; and it cost me my good job, my prestige as a mining engineer, and thirty thousand dollars of money that I'd slaved to get together. They squeezed me, Neddy—squeezed me hard like a lemon, and threw me away, but I got them! I should tell a man! Of course you never knew this, Neddy, and for that matter, neither does Geary. I wish he did. We were good friends once. I certainly was mighty fond of that boy.”
He drew the letter from the envelope and slowly opened it, his mind not upon the letter, but upon Billy Geary.
“And you never heard what became of Geary?”
“Not a word. I was too busy wondering what was to become of me. I couldn't get a job anywhere in Colorado, and I moved to Nevada. Made a million in Goldfield, dropped it in the panic of 1907, and had to start again——”
“What have you been doing lately?”
“Borax. Staked a group of claims down in Death Valley. Bully ground, Neddy, and I was busted when I located them. Had to borrow money to pay the filing fees and incorporation, and did my own assessment work. Look!” Webster held up his hands, still somewhat grimy and calloused.
“How did you get by with your bluff?”
“In the only way anybody ever got by on no pair. I was a brave dog and went around with an erect tail, talking in millions and buying my tobacco on jawbone. The Borax Trust knew I was busted, but they never could quite get over the fear that I'd dig up some blacking and give them a run—so they bought me out. Two weeks ago I got a belated telegram, telling me there was a hundred thousand dollars in escrow against deeds and certificate of title in a Salt Lake City bank—so here I am.”
“Somebody told me Geary had gone to Rhodesia,” Jerome continued musingly, “or maybe it was Capetown. I know he was seen somewhere in South Africa.”
“He left the Creek immediately after the conclusion of his trial. Poor boy! That dirty business destroyed the lad and made a tramp of him, I guess. I tell you, Neddy, no two men ever lived who came nearer to loving each other than Billy Geary and his old Jack-pardner. We bucked the marts of men and went to sleep together hungry many a time during our five-year partnership. Why, Bill was like my own boy! Do you know, Neddy, now that I've rounded the forty-pole, I get thinking sometimes, and wish I could have married when I was about twenty years old; I might have had a son to knock around with now, while I'm still in the shank of my own youth. And if I had been blessed with a son, I would have wanted him to be just like Billy. You know, Bill tied onto me when he was about eighteen. He's rising twenty-six now. He came to me at the Bonnie Claire mine fresh from high school, and I staked him to a drill; but he didn't stick there long. I saw he was too good a boy to be a mucker all his days.”
Webster smiled reminiscently and went on: “I'll never forget the day Billy challenged a big Cornish shift-boss that called him out of his name. The Cousin Jack could fight, too, but Billy walked around him like a cooper around a barrel, and when he finished, I fired the Cousin Jack and gave Billy his job!”
He chuckled softly at the remembrance. “Too bad!” he continued. “That boy had brains and grit and honour, and he shouldn't have held that trial against me. But Billy was young, I suppose, and he just couldn't understand my position. It takes the hard old years to impart common sense to a man, and I suppose Billy couldn't understand why I had to be true to my salt. He should have known I hadn't a leg to stand on when I took the stand for the prosecution—not a scintilla of evidence to present, except that the high-grade had been found in his assay office. Jerome, I curse the day I took that boy out from underground and put him in the Bonnie Claire assay office to learn the business. How could I know that the Holman gang had cached the stuff in his shack?”
“Well, it's too bad,” Jerome answered dully. He was quite willing that the subject of conversation should be changed. “I'm glad to get the right dope on the boy, anyhow. We might be able to hand him a good job to make up for the injustice. Have another drink?”
“Not until I read this letter. Now, who the dickens knew I was headed for Denver and the Engineers' Club? I didn't tell a soul, and I only arrived this morning.”
He turned to the last page to ascertain the identity of his correspondent, and his facial expression ran the gamut from surprise to a joy that was good to see.
It was a long letter, and John Stuart Webster read it deliberately. When he had read it once, he reread it; after which he sat in silent contemplation of the design of the carpet for fully a minute before reaching for the bell. A servant responded immediately.
“Bring me the time-tables of all roads leading to
