OUTLAWS!
Mr. Braden, some twenty-four hours after his interview with Judge Riley, made the shocking discovery that in all probability he had laid down a pat hand before a bluff. But though the discovery brought him to the verge of an apoplectic fit, it came too late. He had signed a statement covering the facts. Under the circumstances it did not matter who had the deeds. If Garland, then his scheme of blackmail would fall down. Mr. Braden found ample to occupy him in the crisis which the loss of the coal property made in his affairs.
The fact was that he was very hard up. The supposed ownership of a promising coal mine had bolstered up his shaky credit. But as soon as it was known that this was no longer his, one or two creditors would come down on him and start an avalanche. And then, though Riley had promised not to prosecute, it was inevitable that some suspicion of crookedness would attach to him. Under the circumstances he was forced to the conclusion that he had played out his string. He had been wise to secure cash. He could raise a few thousand more, and as soon as he did so he would pull out. At once he began to convert his few remaining assets, and as he turned them into cash he put it in his office safe, in a private compartment. The total formed a nice nest egg for the future. His creditors in the course of time might get judgment and be hanged to them, but the cash would be where it could not be tied up by injunctions.
Nevertheless, the strain told on his nerves. For some time he had slept badly, and now he slept scarcely at all. Whisky, which formerly had had a soporific effect, now failed, though he doubled the quantity.
And so, as Angus rode home through the darkness, Mr. Braden lay awake. His mind, after the habit of the insomniac, searched for, dug up and turned over the most unpleasant things within his recollection, driving sleep farther and farther away. It dwelt upon mistakes, failures, humiliations of years before. The wind roared and rain splashed upon the windows; and Mr. Braden, cursed by a thousand plaguing little devils of memory, cursed the night and the darkness and longed for day.
At last he dozed, but was awakened by a muffled, jarring reverberation which shook his bed slightly. It was much like localized thunder. He lay listening, and his ear caught a sound below.
Somebody was in his office. In an instant he was out of bed. He reflected that the boss of a local logging camp who had a payroll to meet the next day, had deposited a considerable amount of cash in his safe. No doubt that was what the robbers were after. But they would not overlook his own cash, too. He could not obtain help until too late. He must stop them single-handed, if at all.
His knees shaking slightly, Mr. Braden padded softly across the room to a wardrobe from which he took an old hammer ten-gauge shotgun, found a box of antique shells, and filled the chambers. Then he stole cautiously down stairs.
The door of his office was closed. He turned the knob and gently opened the door a crack. In the darkness the rays of a flashlight flickered on his open safe. Figures were vaguely outlined. He could not tell how many there were. Obviously, the thing to do was to cover them with the shotgun, but light was necessary, for otherwise they might attack him in the dark. His office was wired, and just beside the door was a switch. He put the gun to his shoulder, holding it with one hand while he felt for the switch. He found it, turned it, and the office sprang into light.
Three men were beside the safe. One held a flash light, another the mouth of a gunny sack to which the third was transferring the safe's contents.