“Baca and Quinliven horned in too—they each want a slice; but Bennett won’t let it out of his hands till you go home. He’s afraid you’ll find instructions from your uncle or some sort of a statement.”
“Uncle Roger knew, in a vague, general way, that men died; but he thought that was only other people—people in the papers,” explained Roger. “And yet he must have kept a pass book, receipts—something to show for his deposits.”
“Exactly! Beck and Baca, between them, have got the pass book, and hold it over Bennett’s head for a club, likely. That’s real funny. Bennett’s the one that’s taken all the risks, this load. Generally it’s somebody else that takes the chances, while Bennett gets the profit.”
“Well! You certainly are a wise old fowl!” said Roger with explosive emphasis.
“If your uncle had trusted him, I think, maybe, Quinliven might have come across—I judge he would. I reckon Quinnie, old boy, was just uncle’s blind; but he guessed something and butted in to blackmail the blackmailers. To make it nice and pleasant all round, him and Baca will be wanting the gamesters to throw the house roll into the pool along with the rest, and then split it all up, even Stephen. I would right much admire to witness the executive session of that firm when they declare the final dividend!” said Neighbor with a chuckle. Then his brow clouded.
“But I can’t. Because we’re going to get it. To begin with, suppose you step round and take Quinnie up on his offer for your cattle. Stick out for cash. He hasn’t got it, but he’ll make the others dig it up from the sinking fund. Right then that company will begin to get a pain in the stumick-ache. They’ll see you makin’ ready to go ’way and they’ll all begin playing for position. You hang to your cattle selling as though you didn’t have another idea on earth.”
Neighbor Jones rose to go.
“And while you start that I’m going round and throw the clutch of circumstance into the high gear.”
Chapter VI
IN the lobby of the Windsor Hotel, as Neighbor Jones came down the stairs, Mr. Octaviano Baca chatted with a little knot of guests. A well-set-up man, tall and strong, with a dark, intelligent face marred and pitted by smallpox but still pleasing, he carried his two score years with the ease of twenty. A gay man, a friendly man, his manner was suave and easy; his dress, place considered, rigorously correct—frock coat, top hat, stick, gloves and gun. The gun was covered, not concealed, by the coat; a chivalrous concession to the law, of which he was so much an ornament.