THE LURE OF EASY MONEY
In the afternoon Gardiner and Riles drove into town and met the Harrises in the waiting-room of the hotel. Gardiner's greeting was friendly, but not over-familiar, as became a man who had recently suffered some reflection on his character. He shook Harris and Allan by the hand, inquired after the cattle and the crops, but discreetly avoided family matters, having learned from Riles that all had not been going smoothly in their domestic affairs. Gardiner knew a little room at the back of the bar, to which he escorted his guests. Having ordered a bottle and glasses on the table, he turned the key in the door.
"You can't be too careful," he explained. "You know, the walls have ears, and if it gets out that this coal mine can be picked up at the price we have on it, it will be taken before night. I understand your money is not here yet, Mr. Harris?"
"No. Not started, I guess. The fact is, I haven't sold the farm."
"Well, I don't want to hurry you, but we've got to act quickly, or not at all. Of course, we don't figure on taking any chances. Our idea is to turn the property over at once, at a good profit. That's the way you feel about it too, isn't it?"
"I'm not a coal miner."
"Exactly. Neither are the men who own most of the mines of this country. There comes a time, Mr. Harris, when we realize that we don't have to get down with pick and shovel to make ourselves some money—in fact, the man with pick and shovel hasn't time to make any real money. I am glad you feel like I do about it, for I have already taken the liberty of putting the proposition up to a New York syndicate."
"You mean if we don't come through, they will?"
"No, I mean that we'll come through—and they'll come after us. My idea is not to take any chances, but to sell the property, or as good as sell it, before we buy it. So I sent a Government report on it to this syndicate, as I heard they were looking out for coal lands in the West, and I just took the liberty of offering it to them for a cool quarter of a million, and gave them until to-night to accept or refuse, by wire. I'm a little anxious for an answer, although if they don't take it others will. You see, the old fellow that owns it simply hasn't any idea what it's worth. He has lived in the hills until he looks like one of 'em, and a satchelful of money in real bills will simply dazzle him. A cheque wouldn't serve the purpose; he'd be suspicious of it, and he'd come down to investigate, and someone would be sure to crimp our deal."
"But what is your plan for the deal, Mr. Gardiner?" asked Harris. "We can't go into the mountains with a load of bills and buy a mine like a man might buy a steer. There'll have to be papers, titles, and such things, I suppose, to make it right with us and with the Government."
"Of course," Gardiner agreed. "We will take the money with us, but we won't give it to him until we get the papers. We'll just let him see it—nibble it a little, if you like—and then we'll lead him into town with it, like you lead a horse with oats. The sight of so much money will keep him coming our way when nothing else would. And we'll slip him a hundred or two, and get a little receipt for it, just to prevent him changing his mind if he should be so disposed."
"And suppose I don't like the look of the mine when I see it?"
"Then you bring your money back down with you and put it into farm lands, or anything else that takes your fancy. After you look it over, if you don't want to go in on it, Mr. Harris, perhaps Riles and I can raise enough ourselves to swing the deal, but you see we thought of you from the first, and we will stay with our original plan until you have a chance to decide one way or another."
"Well, that sounds fair," said Allan, and his father nodded. "But we haven't sold the farm, and until we do I guess there isn't much money in sight."
"Bradshaw'll sell the farm quick enough if I send him word," his father assured him. "He may not get it all in money, but he'll get a good part of it, and he has ways o' raisin' the balance so long's the security is good. I've half a mind t' wire him t' close 'er out."
At this moment there came a knock on the door, and a boy presented a telegram for Gardiner. He opened it, read it, and emitted a whoop like a wild Indian. "They're coming through," he shouted, "coming through! How does half of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars look to you, Mr. Harris?"
Harris reached out eagerly for the telegram, while Allan, his arm thrown over his father's shoulder, read it in boyish excitement:
"If investigation confirms Government reports we will pay two hundred fifty thousand. Our representative leaves at once for personal interview."
The name at the end of the telegram was unknown to either Harris or his son, but Gardiner assured them it was one to conjure with in the financial world. Riles' excitement was scarcely less than Allan's. Gardiner choked a flood of questions on his lips with a quick imperative glance. Even Riles did not know that the telegram had been written a few doors down the street by a stoutish man in a pepper-and-salt suit.
"I'll take a chance," said Harris, at last. "I'll take a chance."
"Chance nothing!" interjected Gardiner, with momentary abruptness. "It was a chance a minute ago; it's a certainty now. It's the cinch of a lifetime."
"Where's some paper?" asked Allan. "Let's get a telegram away right off."
Gardiner produced a notebook and, at Harris's dictation, drafted a telegram to Bradshaw, directing him to dispose of the farm at once along the lines of the instructions already given him. He was to cash the agreement and wire the proceeds to Harris.
Then followed long anxious days. Fortune seemed to hang on Bradshaw's success in making an immediate sale of the farm. It was a large order, and yet Harris felt confident a buyer would be found. The price asked was not unreasonable, especially when it was remembered that the crop would go to the purchaser, and was now almost ready for the binder. Bradshaw was in constant touch with well-to-do farmers from the South who were on the look-out for land, and his own banking facilities would enable him to forward the cash as soon as a sale was assured, without waiting for actual payment by the purchaser. So Harris was confident in the midst of his anxiety.
A gentleman's agreement had been made with Gardiner and Riles that not a word was to be said concerning their investment until it was a completed fact. Gardiner dropped in occasionally to learn if any word had come from Plainville, but it was not until the afternoon of the fourth day that the fateful yellow envelope was handed in at the hotel. As it happened, Gardiner and Riles were present at the moment. They slipped into the back room and waited in a fever of expectation for Harris to announce the contents.
Harris and Allan read the message twice before speaking; then Allan repeated it aloud:
"Twenty thousand dollars proceeds sale goes forward by wire your bank. Correspondence follows. Will explain failure to get price asked.
"BRADSHAW."
Harris was torn between emotions, and his face worked with unwonted nervousness as he struggled with them. That Bradshaw should have sold the farm for half the price he had stipulated seemed incredible. It was robbery; it was a breach of trust of the most despicable nature. On the other hand, if the amount available would enable them to buy the mine, the huge profit assured from that investment would much more than offset the loss on the farm. Gardiner and Riles, too, were visibly downcast when they heard the amount, but Gardiner promptly grappled with the situation.
"It's less than we figured on," he said, "but perhaps we can get through still. The thing to do is to get out to the mine at once with this money. It will be sufficient to prove the genuineness of our intentions, and induce him into town. Then Riles can put up some and I can put up some, and that, with the twenty thousand, should hold the deal until Riles can realize on his farm. Within a very short time we can turn the whole thing over to the New Yorkers, and take in the profits."
"Say, Gardiner," said Allan, speaking as one who had been struck by a new and important thought. "Where do you come in on this deal? Is your old gink up in the hills coming through for half?"
"Not a cent," said Gardiner. "As for where I come in, well, dealing with old friends like Riles and the Harrises, I considered that a secondary matter. I fancy that when they feel the profits in their pockets they will be disposed to be not only fair, but generous, and, of course, if I put up part of the money I will expect my share of profit. But I'm not asking for any assurance; I'm just going to leave that to you."
"Well, that's decent, anyway," Harris agreed. "I haven't as much money as I expected, but if we can pull it through it may be all right yet. Of course, you remember that I haven't promised to put up a dollar unless I like the looks of the mine when I see it?" Harris still had qualms of hesitation about entering into a transaction so much out of his beaten path, and he took occasion from time to time to make sure that an avenue of retreat was still open.
"That's the understanding, exactly," Gardiner assured him. "You're the man with the money, and if you don't like it, don't pay."
Harris at once visited the bank, and returned shortly with the information that the amount, less a somewhat startling percentage for transmission and exchange, was already deposited to his credit.
"Then let us lose no more time," said Gardiner, with enthusiasm. "You will need a team and rig, and you better pack a couple of blankets and some grub. Make the stableman throw in a couple of saddles; you may have to ride the last part of the trip. Riles and I will make it the whole way on horseback." Gardiner then remembered that it would be necessary for him to go back to the ranch and change horses, but he described in detail the road they should take, and assured them they could not miss it. It was the main road up the river valley—up, and up—and if they drove hard they would reach that night a spot where an old, deserted cabin stood back in a clump of poplars. It would be a good place to spend the night, and Riles and Gardiner would meet them there, if, indeed, they did not overtake them on the road. Neither Harris nor Allan had any fear of a strange trail; they had been bred to a sense of direction and location all their lives, and were confident they would find no difficulty in reaching the rendezvous.
"Better make your own arrangements about the horses," Gardiner whispered as they left the room. "We can't be too careful to keep our business secret."
As they stood for a moment in the waiting-room it occurred to Allan that some shooting might be found in the mountains. "You haven't got a gun you could lend me, I suppose?" he said to Gardiner.
"What do you want a gun for?" Gardiner demanded brusquely.
"Might get a shot at a partridge, or something. No harm in having one along, is there?"
"Oh, no, but I don't expect you'll see anything to justify the trouble. Anyway, I haven't got one."
"There's a shot-gun here," said the hotel clerk, who had overheard the last remarks, "if that would suit you. A Cholly who was taking a short course in poker put it up a few days ago as a stand-off on his eat score. There's ten bones against it; if it's worth that to you, take it."
He handed the gun over the counter, and Allan examined it with interest. He recognized an English weapon of a value out of all proportion to the price asked.
"I'll take it," he said, and paid down the money. There was a momentary darkening of Gardiner's face which nobody noticed.
The little party then moved out to the street. Gardiner had regained his smooth manner, and gave some final directions about the road.
"Oh, we'll find it all right," said Allan, in high spirits, "and we'll beat you to the shanty unless you've some faster nags at home than any I see you driving. So long."
"So long," called Gardiner. "So long, and good luck."
"So long, an' good luck," repeated Riles. He was trying to play the game, but, as Gardiner often reminded him, he had no imagination. It would have been quite impossible for Riles, on his own initiative, to have thought of wishing the Harrises "good luck" on the journey they were about to commence…They were interesting types of villains—one, gentlemanly, suave, deep, and resourceful; the other, coarse, shallow, slow-witted, and brutal. The offence of one against society was wholly intellectual; of the other, almost wholly physical. Gardiner fully appreciated the difference, and in his heart he felt a contempt and loathing toward Riles which he concealed only as a matter of policy. And he had worked out in his mind a little plan by which Riles, when his usefulness was ended, should be shuffled off without any share in the booty. At present he tolerated him because of necessity. There was work before them for which Riles was peculiarly qualified.
The Harrises went at once to a livery stable, where they arranged for a team and outfit. They then bought some cartridges for the gun, and a small handbag in which to carry the money.
When Harris presented himself at the bank wicket and asked for the full amount to his credit in cash, the sallow-faced teller turned a trifle paler still and slipped into the manager's office. A moment later the manager himself appeared before them.
"That's a pretty heavy order on a country bank, Mr. Harris. Of course we could give it to you in exchange, but to pay twenty thousand dollars or thereabouts in bills will drain us to almost our last dollar. Can't you use a marked cheque, or a draft on a Calgary bank?"
"Well, no," Harris said; "I'm afraid we can't."
"A marked cheque is as good as bills," the banker argued, "and much easier to carry, not to speak of being safer," he added, as an afterthought. "Travelling with that amount of money on you is a sort of defiance of natural law, especially with the country full of strangers, as it is at present." The banker looked from the powerful frame of the farmer to the equally powerful frame of the farmer's son, and his eye fell on the gun which the latter carried under his arm. "But, I guess," he continued with a laugh, "there isn't much danger on that score."
"Nothin' t' speak of," said Harris. "And while I don't want t' break your bank, I do want t' get that money, and t' get it in bills, or part of it in gold an' silver would do. The fact is, I don't mind tellin' you I've a deal on, an' I've undertaken t' put up this money in cash—to-night."
The banker ruminated for a few minutes. Experience had told him that with a certain class of men money in bills was more valuable than money in a cheque or draft. The very bulk of the currency seemed to impress them. He had seen an old-timer refuse a twelve-hundred-dollar marked cheque for his property, and yet surrender greedily at the sight of a thousand one-dollar bills piled on a table before him. This was a trait of human nature found in many persons unaccustomed to the handling of considerable sums of money, and sharp traders considered it good business to take advantage of it. The banker thought he understood why Harris wanted all the money in bills, although the sum was larger than he had ever seen handled in that way before.
A young man emerged from somewhere and locked the front door of the bank.
"It's closing time now," said the teller, addressing the manager. "We have enough cash on hand to pay this gentleman, and we can wire for more bills, which will reach us in time for to-morrow's business."
"Pay it, then," said the manager. "Mr. Harris has a right to his money in that form if he wants it. But," he added, turning to Harris, "I'd advise you to keep both eyes on it until your transaction is completed."
The counting of the money was a bigger task than either Harris or Allan had thought, but at last it was completed, and they were ready for the road. The banker looked after their buggy as it faded out of sight up the river road.
"Hang me if I like that!" he said to himself.
The long drive up the valley in the warm August afternoon was an experience for the soul of painter or poet. Even John and Allan Harris, schooled as they were in the religion of material things, felt something within them responding to the air, and the sunlight, and the dark green banks of trees, and the sound of rushing water, and the purple-blue mountains heaving and receding before them. The sweat trickled in narrow tongues down the backs of their horses, reminding them that the ascent was much steeper than it appeared. As they topped each new ridge they looked expectantly forward to a greater revelation of the mountains, but this was constantly denied by ever-recurring successions of ridges still ahead. The long, smooth swell of the plain gradually gave way to the more abrupt formations of the foothills, and here and there in their rounded domes protruded great warts of green-grey rock where the winds of ages had whipped the sand down into the valleys. Little clusters of green poplars, like vast goatees, nestled on the northern chin of the hills across the valley, where the Chinook had failed to spread its balmy winter-blight among them; here and there were glimpses of thousands of cattle feeding on the brown ranges. The sun, like a bubble of molten gold blown from the bowl of heaven, hung very close in a steel-bright, cloudless sky. Lower it fell, and lower, until a fang of rock two miles high pierced its under-edge, and sent a flood of fire pouring in a thin, bright border along the crest of the Rockies. The travellers stopped their horses on a ridge to watch the marvellous transformation; light before them, light behind them, at their feet the shadows creeping up the mountain sides, and the valley beneath transformed as by some fairy wand into a sea of amber.
Allan breathed deeply of the high, clear air, and in his eye was something which revealed that the light without had some way struck to new life the slumbering light within. He had no words of expression—no means of conveying his emotion; but he thought of his mother and Beulah—Beulah, who had so often protested against the substitution of existence for life. He had never had much patience with her queer notions, but now, in this moment when he knew that in some strange way he had invaded the borderland of the Infinite, Beulah stood up before his eyes—Beulah, his sister, resolute, defiant, reaching out, demanding life, life! He turned to his father, but was silenced by the sight of a line of moisture crawling slowly down the weather-beaten cheek. John Harris was driving again the pioneer trail from Emerson; at his side was Mary, young, beautiful, and trusting, and before them lay life…And they had not found that life…He made a dry sound in his throat, and the horses moved on.
Darkness settled about them. One or two stars came out. The poplars took on the colour of the spruce; the river fretted more noisily in its rocky channel. A thin ribbon of cloud lay across the mountains, and a breeze of wonderful mellowness came down through the passes.
At length, just as they were thinking of pitching camp for the night, Allan espied a deserted cabin in a cluster of trees by the side of the road. They turned into the wood and unhitched the horses.
The building was some old prospector's shack, long unoccupied save for occasional hunter or rancher, and the multitude of gophers that had burrowed under its rotting sills. The glass was gone from a single window looking out upon the road; the door had fallen from its hinges; the floor had been broken down in spots by the hoofs of wandering cattle. A match revealed a lantern hanging on the wall, and a few cooking utensils, safe from all marauders under the unwritten law of the new land.
The two men first made their horses comfortable, and then cooked some supper on a little fire at the door of the shack. Harris was tired, so they cleared a space in the corner furthest from the door, and spread their blankets there. Harris lay down to rest, the precious bag of money by his side.
"You might as well drop off for a nap," Allan suggested. "They must have been delayed, and may not make it to-night at all. We're here for the night, and you may as well rest if you can. I won't turn in myself until you waken."
"I believe I'll do as you say," his father agreed. "Keep a keen ear an' don't leave the building without wakin' me."
Allan looked out at different times for Gardiner and Riles, but there seemed no sound in all the world save the rushing of water. A cold draught crept along the floor…He fancied his father had fallen into a nap…The night chill deepened, and at length Allan hung a blanket as best he could across the open door. His gun gave him a sense of companionship, and he took it in his hands and sat down beside his father…It was very lean and graceful in his fingers.
While the banker worked in his garden in the long August evening the thought of the two men with a bag full of money kept recurring and recurring in his mind, and smothering the natural pride he felt in his abounding cabbages. True, it was no business of his, but still he could not feel entirely at ease. As he bent over his hoe he heard hoofs clatter in the street, and, looking up, saw the erect form of Sergeant Grey on his well-groomed Government horse. At a signal from the banker the policeman drew up beside the fence.
They talked in low voices for ten minutes. "It may be a wild-goose chase," said the sergeant at last, "but it's worth a try." Half an hour later his horse was swinging in his long, steady stride up the road by the winding river.