CHAPTER III: THE MASQUERADING HEIRESS
The trip from San Francisco to Lobo Wells had seemed interminably long to Nan Whitlock, but her nerve almost failed her when she heard the brakeman calling: “Lo-o-o-bo Wells, next station! Lo-o-o-bo Wells!”
Nan had rather shocked the landlady by paying the rent the morning after Madge Allan had been killed, and rather mystified the authorities, who were looking for more information about Madge Allan, only to find that Nan had faded out of the picture. Mrs. Emmett had offered to turn Madge’s trunk over to her, but Nan refused it. It had been a simple matter to cash the hundred-dollar cheque.
But now she was facing the test, as the train ground to a stop at the weather-beaten depot, and she came down timidly, carrying a large valise. She had not replied to the lawyer’s letter, so there was no one at the station to meet her.
Except for a cowboy who leaned negligently against a corner of the depot, watching the depot agent and a brakeman unloading some stuff from the express car, the platform was empty. After a few moments the train went on and the cowboy went into the station with the agent.
With the train out of the way, Nan was able to get her first look at the town of Lobo Wells. And her first impression was not a flattering one. The station and tracks seemed to be a barrier across one end of the main street, which was narrow, dusty, with crooked wooden sidewalks and false-fronted wooden buildings, many of them out of line.
Saddle horses nodded at the hitchracks in the noonday sun, and a bunch of loose horses milled around a corral behind a livery-stable, throwing clouds of dust.
It was very hot there on the old platform. Pitch oozed from the pine planks, and Nan could feel the heat through the thin soles of her shoes. The cowboy came from the station, stopped on the edge of the platform and looked at her.
It was Len Ayres, but a different Len Ayres than had come back to Lobo Wells three days before. Whispering had loaned him enough money for a new outfit of clothes, and Len had always been slightly inclined to the gaudy, in raiment. His shirt was a robin’s-egg blue, with scarlet muffler and a tan sombrero. His chaps were a second-hand pair, but nearly new, with fancy rosettes, cut in the extreme of bat-wing type. His belt and gun were the same he had worn before his arrest, having been kept at the Box S by Harmony Singer.
“Beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said slowly. “Were you lookin’ for somebody especial?”
“Well,—I suppose not,” replied Nan helplessly. “Foolish of me to expect any one, because no one knew when I was coming. But I wish you could direct me to the office of an attorney by the name of Baggs.”
Len started slightly, but nodded. This girl was rather good-looking, evidently from the city, and he wondered why she would come to Lobo Wells to seek Amos Baggs.
“Do you happen to know him?” she asked.
“Yeah, I know him, ma’am. Lemme pack that valise, and I’ll take yuh up to his office. Do you know Baggs?”
Nan shook her head as she surrendered the valise to Len.
“No, I have never seen him.”
“Uh-huh. Kinda hot to-day. We’ll hit the shady side.”
“Thank you so much.”
Nan stole several glances at the hard-faced cowboy with the greenish-gray eyes, as they walked up the creaking sidewalk. He was the first cowboy she had ever seen, except on the stage, and it struck her that his raiment was a trifle theatrical, until she saw several others, who were dressed much the same. The big gun swinging from his hip looked businesslike.
“Do you take care of cattle?” she asked.
A smile flashed across Len’s lips.
“Yes’m,” he said shortly, and a moment later: “This is Baggs’s office, ma’am,” indicating the doorway just ahead of them. Len had not met Baggs since his return, but as they came up to the doorway, Baggs stepped out.
Amos Alexander Baggs was not a prepossessing person, except for height, which was well over six feet, exaggerated by thinness. His nearly bald head showed some gray hair, weak eyes, a thin nose, rather short for a long face, and a determined mouth and chin. He wore a white collar and a flowing black tie above what was once a fancy vest, the rest of his raiment being rusty black, badly wrinkled.
He jerked slightly at such close contact to the man he had sent to the penitentiary, and blinked his watery eyes at Nan.
“This is Mr. Baggs,” said Len slowly.
“Thank you so much for directing me and carrying my bag.”
“Thasall right, ma’am.”
Len gave Baggs a hard glance, nodded to Nan, and went across the street. Baggs looked after him for a moment and then turned to Nan.
“You wanted to see me?” he asked.
“About a letter you sent me,” said Nan. “I—I am Madge Singer.”
Baggs’s eyes opened a trifle as he looked her over.
“Oh, yes—yes! Come right in. I was wondering about you. Just came in, eh? Didn’t know whether you’d come or not. Mm-m-m-m. Much better than I expected. Sit down there while I close the door.”
Nan sat down, while he bustled around, finally coming back to his desk, which was strewn with papers and books. He filled and lighted a cob pipe, nervously tamping the tobacco with his skinny forefinger. Pipe drawing to his satisfaction, he turned to Nan.
“Well, well! What do you think of Lobo Wells? Quite a place. I won’t go into any details, because I suppose Jack Pollock has explained things. Knew Jack well. Used to work for Harry Cole, over across the street, when Cole first opened up. Him and Harry were very close—very.
“Now the thing for you to do is to go to the hotel, register for a room and stay there to-night. The will has not been probated yet, but there’s no reason why you can’t take over the ranch at once. No argument, because there are no other heirs. You will probably have to live at the ranch for a month or two, you understand. But it’s a comfortable place. I’ll go down to the hotel with you. Pretty hot to-day, isn’t it? We get plenty of heat here, but it’s healthful. You’ll be as brown as a berry in a week. Look kinda pale. This will do you good. Know who that puncher was—the one who brought you here?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Nan, her mind in a whirl.
“That was Len Ayres. Just got back from serving five years in prison. I was prosecuting attorney at that time, and I secured his conviction. He pulled some big robberies in this country, and he’s thoroughly bad. The officers are watching him. By the way, he’s staying out at your ranch. But we’ll stop that. Two other old men out there. Been there for years. Perhaps you better keep them on the job. Friends of your late uncle.” Baggs laughed crookedly and got to his feet.
“We’ll go down to the hotel now. Did you bring a trunk?”
“I’m travelling light,” smiled Nan.
“That’s sensible. How is Jack Pollock?”
“He was all right the last time I saw him,” said Nan truthfully.
“That’s fine.”
They were halfway back to the hotel, when Baggs said:
“Do you know, I wasn’t looking for your type. Not a bit. But I like you better. You look innocent. I don’t mean any disrespect to either party, but you’re not the kind of a girl that I’d expect Jack Pollock to take up with. That’s a fact. I’ll introduce you to Harry Cole as soon as convenient. Just for your own sake, I’d advise you to keep away from the cowboys around here. They’re a wild lot.”
Nan’s face was rather red, but it might have been from the heat. She disliked Baggs, and she couldn’t see why he should promise to introduce her to Harry Cole. But she realised that, as Madge Allan, she must understand what it was all about, and she wondered how it would turn out.
Baggs registered for her, and went away while the bearded proprietor showed her to a room in the front of the two-story half-adobe hotel, which, by comparison, made her last room in San Francisco look like a palace.
“This ain’t no bridal sweet,” he told her, “but it gives yuh a view of the street. Ain’t no ice water, ’cause there ain’t no ice, but we filter it pretty good. You goin’ to be here long?”
“Not very.”
“Uh-huh. Well, nobody stays long at a hotel. You ain’t a drummer, are yuh?”
“Drummer?”
“Yeah—sellin’ things.”
“No, I’m not.”
“I seen yuh go past with Len Ayres. Know him very well?”
“Not at all. He directed me to Mr. Baggs’s office.”
“Uh-huh. Well, Baggs can tell yuh all about Len. He sent Len to the penitentiary. ’F I had my choice between the two, I know which one I’d take. Well, I hope you’ll be comfortable, ma’am.”
“Which one would you take?” asked Nan, hardly knowing why she asked the question.
The bearded man stopped at the door and grinned back at her.
“I ain’t sayin’, ma’am, because I’ve got to live here, and yuh can’t afford to cross-fire the law.”