CHAPTER VII: A WARNING
Nan’s first week at the Box S was so interesting that she forgot to be lonesome. Len found a gentle horse for her to ride, and bought her a pair of overalls, shirt and wide hat at Lobo Wells.
Side-saddles were unknown in that country. She suffered in silence, and by the end of the week most of the soreness had subsided, giving her a chance to enjoy riding. Either Len or Sailor rode with her, and sometimes they both took her along. Sailor didn’t like it. He was woman-shy, and didn’t care who knew it.
Whisperin’ stayed at the ranch, doing the cooking and chuckling at Sailor’s discomfiture. Their arguments lasted far into the night, neither of them conceding a point.
It was Friday morning when Amos Baggs rode out again. Nan was alone in the house, but the men were down at the corral. Baggs sat down and inquired as to her health and the state of affairs at the ranch. He said he was sorry not to have been out sooner, but business had kept him in town.
“I’ve got everything fixed up at the bank,” he said, as he drew out a cheque and placed it on the table. “If you will just sign this cheque, Miss Singer.”
Nan looked at the cheque, which had been drawn in favour of A. A. Baggs for the sum of one thousand dollars. She looked at Baggs, her eyes a trifle wide.
“What is this for?” she asked.
“My fee for handling the case,” he smiled. “Just sign your name, and everything is fine.”
Nan hesitated, and a moment later Len came in. He had seen Baggs’s horse and buggy at the front of the house.
He nodded coldly at Baggs, stopping just inside the doorway.
“Well, I don’t know,” said Nan. “It—it doesn’t seem right for me to be signing cheques just yet.”
“What was it?” asked Len.
“Just a matter of signing a cheque covering my fee,” said Baggs coldly. “It doesn’t concern you, Ayres.”
“For how much?” asked Len, paying no attention to Baggs.
“A thousand dollars,” replied Nan.
“Don’t sign it. This will hasn’t been probated yet.”
“That makes no difference,” said Baggs hotly. “Everything is in order, as far as the will is concerned.”
“It’s never in order until the court passes on it, Baggs.”
Baggs got to his feet, his lean jaws working violently.
“Just what right have you to advise this woman, Ayres?”
“I’m her foreman, Baggs. She don’t know much about this business. She ain’t got no more right to sign that cheque than I have, and you know it.”
“Do you mean to say that I’ve got to wait another month, until court opens again, before I can get my just fees from this case?” Baggs laughed shortly. “What do you know about the law, Ayres?”
“Plenty. You take my advice and get off this ranch.”
Baggs almost exploded with wrath. “Me get off? Off this ranch?”
“Please don’t have any trouble,” said Nan hastily.
“It won’t be any trouble,” grinned Len. “Baggs knows it won’t, as well as I do. You pull out, Baggs. When that will has been probated properly, and Miss Singer has the right, she’ll sign yore cheque, but not before.”
Baggs left, and as far as they could see, and hear him, he was whipping the horse and talking to himself.
“Was that the right thing to do?” asked Nan dubiously.
“Sure thing,” smiled Len. “You don’t own this property until the court says the will is all right. Oh, there probably won’t be any argument about it in this country, even if you signed the cheque now, but you can’t be too careful. And that fee is pretty stiff in a small case like this.”
“I want to do the right thing,” said Nan softly.
“That’s fine. You don’t mind if I call yuh Madge, do yuh? Out in this country we usually call folks by their first names, yuh know.”
“I don’t mind, Len.”
“That’s a lot better.”
“But my folks always called me Nan. My name is really Madge, but”—Nan thought quickly—“they called me Nan.”
“Kind of a nickname, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I like it better than Madge. Fits yuh better.”
Baggs went back to town in a towering rage, his horse all a-lather, and turned it over to the stable-keeper, who was a trifle particular how his stock was treated.
“Didja win the race?” he asked Baggs sarcastically, but the Lobo Wells lawyer strode away without any reply.
“Acts like he’d lost two bits,” reflected the stableman, as he rubbed down the horse.
Baggs went back to his office and filled his pipe, but he was too mad to smoke. Breezy Hill came sauntering along and stopped in the doorway. Baggs glared at the deputy and went back to his pipe.
“If Charley Prentice don’t lay off the booze, he’ll see a lotta pink snakes pretty soon,” said Breezy.
“Are you his keeper?” asked Baggs.
“Well, I ain’t been appointed yet,” said Breezy calmly. “But he’s goin’ to need one if he keeps drinkin’.”
“I guess that’s his business.”
“Mebbe,” Breezy grinned widely. “You ain’t sick, are yuh, Amos? I seen yore buggy horse when yuh came in. You must ’a’ been in a hurry. Out at the Box S, wasn’t yuh?”
“That’s none of your damn business.”
“Coil up and bite yourself,” advised Breezy, and walked away.
It was after banking hours, and Breezy found Lester Johnson, the bookkeeper of the bank, at the office talking with the sheriff about Charley Prentice.
“I don’t know what to do,” said Johnson. “I hate to notify the directors, but something must be done. Prentice has been drunk all the week. Keeps a bottle in the washroom. I can’t understand him, and he can’t understand anything.”
“I reckon the directors ort to know about it,” said the sheriff. “A man in his condition ain’t responsible. I’ll go and have a talk with him, before yuh do anythin’, Johnson.”
“That’ll be fine, sheriff.”
Later that afternoon the sheriff went out to Prentice’s home, but Prentice was asleep, doubled up on the couch in the living-room, fully dressed, badly in need of a shave and a haircut.
“What do yuh reckon is the matter with him?” the sheriff asked the Indian woman.
“Drunk.”
“That’s easy. But why is he drinkin’?”
“I dunno,” heavily. “Mebbe scared. Keep close to gun.”
“Scared, eh? What’s he—oh, yeah.”
It suddenly dawned on the sheriff that Prentice was afraid of Len Ayres. Prentice’s evidence had been instrumental in sending Len to prison, and a short time later he had married Mrs. Ayres. And now he was drinking himself blind through a fear that Len would do him bodily injury.
“Well, yuh can’t beat that,” he said aloud. “Yellow pup.”
“I dunno,” said the squaw, which absolved her of everything.
The sheriff went back and dropped in at the Oasis, where he met Harry Cole. Charley Prentice being uppermost in his mind, he told Cole that he had discovered why Prentice was drinking so heavily. Cole was interested.
“Prentice is yellow,” declared the sheriff. “I don’t think Len would ever hurt him, do you?”
“I doubt it,” said the gambler thoughtfully. “You think Prentice is yellow, Ben?”
“A streak up his back as wide as this street. His cook says he’s stayin’ close to a gun. That means he’s packin’ one, Harry. Johnson will prob’ly notify the directors and Charley will lose his job.”
“He ain’t notified ’em yet, has he?”
“Not yet. But he’ll have to pretty soon.”
“I suppose so.”
The mail had arrived a few minutes before the sheriff left the Oasis, so he sauntered over to the little post office, where there was usually a knot of men, waiting for distribution. Amos Baggs was there, but he looked so sour that the sheriff did not talk with him.
Baggs was one of the first to get his mail, and the sheriff idly watched him open an envelope and scan the contents. A blank stare overspread the face of the lawyer, succeeded by a sag of astonishment. He blinked rapidly several times, shut his teeth with a determined snap, and walked out, striking his shoulder against the side of the door as he made his rather blind exit.
“I’ll betcha that’s bad news,” said the sheriff to himself, as he headed for the little window, where the postmaster handed out the mail.
But the sheriff didn’t know half how bad it was. Amos went back to his office and flopped down in his chair, limp as a rag. He stared blindly at the wall for several minutes, before he took out that letter and looked it over again. It was from San Francisco, and read:
“Dear Baggs,—More tough luck and a scheme gone wrong. I’m in a hospital with a broken arm and some smashed ribs, but that is only part of it. The girl who was to work with you on that deal was instantly killed in the same accident. Sorry I couldn’t notify you sooner, but I’ve been in bad shape. Will write you more about it later.
“Sincerely,
“Jack Pollock.
“P.S.—Tell Harry about it.”
Baggs crumpled the letter in his hand, scratched a match and applied it to the paper, after which he placed the paper on top of a cuspidor and watched it fade to writhing ashes.
His face was pale, and in his eyes was a queer expression of wonderment. Absently he picked up his pipe and lighted a match, but the pipe would not draw, and with a bitter curse he threw it across the room.
Finally he surged to his feet, stood for a moment, as though undecided, but finally locked his office and went across the street to the Oasis Saloon.