What gave the occurrence a sinister aspect and set the Quintell gang guessing, was the fact that this was the first time a plot of theirs had miscarried, with such disastrous results—the first time their assassins had been wiped out to the last man. Lennox, it was argued, given guns and ammunition could not have possibly shot four men without being killed. Besides, it was known that he was ignorant in the use of firearms. He had received help then. Doubtless, he had led the four into a trap to be slaughtered. By whom? Could it be possible that the decent citizenry of the camp had organized, that they had launched a secret war of extermination with a view of shattering the power of the element? Was the Quintell dictatorship threatened? These and other questions were discussed by the brains of the camp’s control at a conference held in the Brokers’ Exchange Building and laughed at by their big, arrogant leader.
“Let them organize!” he whipped out harshly, his hard eyes sweeping the circle seated around the conference table. “Let them start heckling the combination, if they think they’re lucky! We’ll take them down the line! If they’re looking for blood we’ll swim the camp in it. I’m handling the thing, see? We’re going to ascertain conditions, then we’ll strike suddenly. They won’t have a chance. The first matter to be cleared up is Lennox, the damned traitor knows too much. He must be found and stopped. It’s worth five thousand dollars to us to put him where he can’t talk. I have his Pasadena home address, and men will leave on the night train to get him, if he’s gone there. Others are investigating the scene of the killing to see if they can pick up his trail. We’ll get him. We have to get him, or he’ll get us. Once he begins spouting and that moss-back grand jury begins digging around up here, we may as well begin jumping into Mexico.”
At the conclusion of the meeting and just as his confederates were preparing to depart, Quintell said:
“Huntington has returned home, and the two railroad detectives are in camp with their baggage. I’ve been informed by the Western Union night operator they were wired to return to Los Angeles. Huntington is alone at the ranch. That means, the ranch is ours. I’ll have the quit-claim by midnight to-night. In the morning, Rankin will rush a bunch of men out there to attend to Peter Boyd and Jerome Liggs. By the way, does anybody know where Huntington’s daughter is staying in Frisco? Well, no matter. I’ll find out. If the old bum don’t come through decent, he gets the limit. The new strike, gentlemen, is as good as ours.”
When they were gone, Quintell sat back in his swivel chair and began glancing through a fistful of that day’s mail. He halted over one letter, frowned at it a moment, and pressed the buzzer under the edge of his desk. That letter bore the signature: “Lex Sangerly, Division Superintendent, M. & S. R. R. Co.”
The door leading into the outer offices opened, and a tall hawk-eyed, middle-aged man entered. He came forward with long, noiseless strides, watching his employer over his glasses.
“Harrison, how about this?” snapped Quintell, handing over Sangerly’s letter to the other. “The date! Look at the date! It’s ten days since we received——”
“Permit me, Mr. Quintell,” broke in Harrison suavely. “You instructed me to file it, pending receipt of certificates of record from the county recorder, if you will remember. They came to-day, sir. The surveyors will complete their work this afternoon, I understand. In fact, the only thing remaining to be done is to draw up papers of incorporation of the Lucky Boy Placer Company, if that is the name you have decided on for the group.”
“Draw them up immediately! Rush them through! That name will do as well as any other. On your way out, send me in a stenographer to take dictation.”
“Pardon, Mr. Quintell.” The man hesitated. “But if you intend to answer Mr. Sangerly’s letter—er—you were in conference, sir, and I wouldn’t disturb you. He’s out there, waiting to speak with you.”