CHAPTER XXVII THE MAN IN THE DESERT
"Say, Dick," requested Paul, "just calm down a bit, and sort of explain things."
"Yes, he's got me going," added Innis, pausing in the act of frying some eggs for supper.
"Why, it's plain enough," said Dick. "Here is a piece of a San Francisco paper, and it has in it an account of this railroad lawsuit. The case come up in 'Frisco, you know," he added. "The paper was probably tossed out of the car window by some man who got tired of it, and I almost wish I hadn't found it."
"Why?" Paul wanted to know.
"Because it makes me feel bad. To think that all my hard work is thrown away."
"But is it?" asked Innis.
"It looks so. This is how I figure it out. As soon as Uncle Ezra finds out he couldn't block my game to save Mr. Wardell's fortune by getting the legal papers away from me, he starts off on a new tack. He has his lawyers look up other means for getting control of this railroad, and they find one, it seems.
"From what I can gather, by reading this article, a new witness has cropped up. He gave testimony in court that knocks out Wardell, and makes his claim valueless. Under the new ruling, Uncle Ezra and those associated with him can go ahead and, inside of a week, get possession of the railroad stock so that Mr. Wardell can't redeem it.
"You see, it was this way: This Wardell had this stock left to him by his father. It was worth considerable. In fact, it virtually made him owner of the railroad, though of course he didn't operate it. Then, foolishly, he puts up that stock as security for a loan with Uncle Ezra, and invests the money in something else.
"He loses it—I guess Uncle Ezra intended he should, and of course if he can't pay it back Uncle Ezra will get the railroad. But from what my dad and I understood there was a time limit set by which Wardell would have another show for his white alley—I mean that he'd get a chance to go to court, and say he had been cheated and would like more time to raise the money to buy back his railroad stock.
"That's the plan I've been working on, and that's what these legal papers covered. Now it seems this new witness makes it all look like an ice cream cone on a hot day. Unless the money is paid inside of a week Wardell will forfeit all his stock to Uncle Ezra. Oh, it's a cute game, all right, and there doesn't seem to be any way to beat it," said Dick, bitterly.
"Maybe if we hurried into San Francisco," suggested Paul, "and saw this witness, we could explain things to him, and ask him to hold off until Mr. Wardell could get here."
"No chance of that," said Dick. "Wardell is in South America—the land knows where. We can't reach him in time."
"But if we could find this witness," persisted Paul.
"He's disappeared, so this newspaper article says," remarked Dick. "That's another funny part of it. It looks like a hold-off game, spiriting the witness away in that fashion, and yet what can we do? Even if we got to 'Frisco before the end of the week, which we could easily do, by abandoning the car and taking a train, what good would it do? We couldn't offset the testimony of this witness."
"It does look as though we were up against it," assented Paul.
"Good and hard," agreed Dick.
"Well, let's have grub," suggested Innis, practically. "It's almost ready. And maybe after supper we'll find a way out."
But even after the meal, eaten amid the silence of the salt desert, their gloomy thoughts were not dispersed. They sat about, moody and quiet, until Paul, with a sarcastic exclamation, cried out:
"Say, this is the limit. Let's do a song and dance, or something like that."
"There is a phonograph stowed away somewhere among my things," said Dick with a laugh that had no mirth in it.
"Trot it out and give us a tune," urged Innis, and, after a moment's thought, Dick complied. Anything was better than sitting about, thinking gloomy thoughts. And really he felt keenly his failure so unexpectedly disclosed by that stray piece of newspaper.
All his hard work—his skill in keeping the legal documents away from the cunning emissaries of Uncle Ezra—had gone for naught, in case it were true what he had read. And he had no reason to doubt it. The paper was a reliable publication, and the names of lawyers were mentioned who had a national reputation.
Of course, in a measure, it was a case of "high finance," perhaps not strictly moral, but perfectly legal. Certain interests wanted control of the railroad, and even Uncle Ezra might be simply a catspaw in the game.
Yet it seemed certain that unless something were done—some sort of legal protest or injunction entered—the Wardell fortune would be wiped out. And this Dick did not want to see happen.
Paul was at the phonograph, adjusting the mechanism. He had slipped in a record containing "My Old Kentucky Home," and soon its strains were vibrating out on the desert air.
The phonograph was not particularly good, for it was too small to have any sweetness, and yet, even with that handicap, the boys enjoyed the "canned music," as Dick called it.
As the chorus welled out, they joined in with the voice of the singer coming from the horn.
"'My old Kentucky home—good night!'"
There was a pause, and as the chorus was repeated more softly, the boys lowered their voices. They had sung in the glee club at Kentfield Military Academy, and their tones were true and pure. In the darkness of the starlight night, on that lonely desert, the music seemed to gather strength and sweetness.
Then, as the chorus neared the end, the three chums were startled to hear, off in the distance, another voice joining in with theirs, blending perfectly, in a rich baritone.
They stopped singing, so startled were they, for they thought themselves all alone, and the unseen voice carried the air alone, accompanied only by the phonograph.
Then, as the last echoes died away, Dick Hamilton jumped to his feet and called out:
"Who is there?"