"How much was the mortgage for?"
"A hundred thousand dollars."
"A hundred thousand dollars," Locke repeated, unbelievingly. If it had been that much, Cable had been generous. But it did not make sense. There had been no debts against the Three Sevens when he had lived in the Wild Buttes. He was sure of that, having overhead a remark by Ginny's father not long before he left the country.
Moreover, Landers had not been a gambling man, which made it all the more strange, not to say improbable. A quarter of that sum, even half, would have been believable. Twenty-five or even fifty thousand dollars could have been taken care of by sacrificing the herds, leaving the ranch intact. This other had taken everything.
The implications were clear. It had been worked through the bank, and Cable owned the bank. Unless he was badly mistaken, this was just one more steal. But even if he could gather proof, at this late date, what could he do to assure justice for Ginny Landers, living now in poverty? He, too, was a part of this vicious machinery of lawlessness.
King Steele had dropped a word here and there during the day. By evening, when thirty-odd men gathered in a back room of one of the saloons, Steele could afford to sit silently and let others do the talking.
Cable did most of it. He waited to be persuaded, but since he was the biggest ranch owner and a substantial citizen, he received plenty of prompting. Sam McCarthy, another rancher and a man of unquestioned integrity, asked:
"What do you think about this, Cable? We all know what we're here for—to talk about organizin' ourselves as vigilantes. There's been some talk for quite a while, and it really got to rollin' after Sheriff Cassell was dry-gulched. Since then, you've persuaded Orin Locke to be our new star toter. And considerin' the start he made today, it looks as though he's as good as reports say. Maybe he's a big enough man to handle the deviltry in this country by himself. Maybe he wouldn't welcome our organizing. It might look like we didn't have any trust for him or respect for the law. We wouldn't want such a notion to get abroad. What do you think about it?"
"There's a lot in what you say," Cable agreed thoughtfully. "Having Locke as sheriff will make a big difference, I'm sure of that. On the other hand, we all know that Cassell was a good sheriff and a hard worker; and we know what happened to him. The way it seems to me, if we go ahead and organize ourselves as a committee and let it be understood that our purpose is to back up the law—well, Locke has a tough job. We might be able to give him some real help."
Since that was the prevailing sentiment, the organization was effected, along the lines already suggested by Cable. Steele watched the proceedings, not without admiration. There was no question as to Cable's cleverness. That was the trouble. He might prove too clever. But for the present, everything was working out well.
Well pleased, Cable returned home, to a light in the house and the tantalizing fragrance of fresh-made coffee. Reta greeted him with a smile.
"I knew you'd be hungry, so I fixed up a snack for the two of us," she explained. Cable eyed her with sudden wariness as he laid aside hat and coat. He was fond of his daughter, and he lavished all that he had on her; it was for her, he assured himself, that he did things as he did, to make money. He had known poverty in his boyhood, and he intended to put her beyond any danger of want.
But is was not her custom to sit up until he returned from town or to take this much trouble to please him. When she did so, she had something on her mind.
It came out over his second cup of coffee. "I think you're wonderful," she said sweetly, "to get a man like Orin Locke to serve as sheriff. He's made a fine start, hasn't he?"
"Excellent," Cable agreed; "one which seems to vindicate both our judgments. But," he added dryly, "it could be that you're somewhat prejudiced in favor of a Locke to begin with, eh, Reta?"
Reta colored, but smilingly admitted the impeachment.
"I do like the Lockes," she agreed. "I think it's a shame there's been trouble between them. Somehow, this Orin Locke doesn't seem at all to justify the things they used to say about him."
"He has a fine reputation as a law officer," her father conceded.
"I'm glad that you were instrumental in getting him to take the job, glad that you're both on the same side," Reta told him. "Some folks have been saying that you were too friendly with King Steele—and his reputation isn't good. Maybe this will show them that you aren't."
Cable eyed his daughter, startled. Being no fool, he had been aware for some time that Steele took more than a casual interest in her, and that his real business when he came to the ranch was to see her. To him, that had seemed rather a good thing. It served to weld their own shaky but profitable partnership, and Steele was a personable sort, with plenty of money.
"I was under the impression that you rather liked Steele," he observed, and wondered if he had been blinded by his own desires.
The vehemence of her reply startled him again. "I don't; I hate him! And I don't trust him. I'm glad you're not associated with him."
Rumors of the organization of vigilantes were about Highpoint the next morning. Locke heard them at breakfast. He had enjoyed a good night's sleep, since his immediate personal problems had been solved when he became sheriff. There was a cot in the room back of the office, so that the sheriff could always be handy.
He paid no particular attention to the reports, for rumor had a way of running in a gold camp like the muddy waters below the sluices. Most stories were wildly distorted, as he had long since learned. Still, it was possible that some of the citizens had become disturbed at the mounting wave of lawlessness. Some of them might suspect who the real leaders of the outlaws were. In that case, they would not put much credence in the law, which had been appointed by those same men!
The matter of shipping gold out from camp sometime in the near future was being discussed. He supposed it would be taken up with him, and smiled bleakly at the thought.
Whether it was because of these rumors of an aroused populace, or his own reputation, or both, Highpoint was on its good behavior. No incident, not even a minor one, marred its tranquility as the day wore on. If Steele held conferences in his office, that was nothing out of the ordinary.
Steele was taking his time. The new vigilance committee was playing into his hands. He made his selection from among the men who had been present the evening before, being doubly careful to pick men who would have no suspicion that his own motives were not the same as theirs.
"I went along with you gentlemen in organizing a vigilance committee, because it seems to be necessary," Steele assured them. "But I don't like to do this, for two reasons, both of which I'm sure that you'll appreciate. For one thing, it goes against my grain to entertain adverse suspicions of any of my fellow-citizens, or to plan action against them without proof of their complicity. And in this instance, some might think that I was actuated by jealousy."
He noted with secret amusement that his callers were impressed. Probably they didn't understand half the words he was using, but his language contributed to their belief that he was a gentleman, and therefore of unimpeachable character.
"But, having found it to our mutual advantage to organize as a vigilance society, we must prove worthy of our name, by taking action where it seems to be required," he went on. "I can't shirk my duty for personal reasons, or because such a course is distasteful. On the other hand, you will appreciate that I do not wish to be directly involved in this particular affair, because I may be prejudiced. Maybe I am jealous of Ray Locke. If so, you gentlemen will understand why."
They looked at him and at each other, startled by the name he had used, ready to smile but not quite daring. They understood what he meant, or thought they did.
"So, to assure fairness, I am going to turn over to you certain information which has come to me, for your dispassionate judgment and possible investigation," Steele went on. "I haven't cared to act on these reports, but if they are true, then you should find it out, and act. If they are not, then we must know that, so that Ray Locke can be cleared of any unjust suspicion. Now here's what I suggest."
What he suggested was that Ray Locke was one of the road agents who had been causing so much trouble. His reasons for believing this sounded convincing.
"Maybe he's all that he appears to be; maybe not."
Steele added. "But if he is guilty, then by following the tips that I've received, you should be able to find proof. If you find it and learn that he is guilty, you'll know what to do. If you fail to find it, then he'll have a clean bill of health. But we must know, one way or the other, where everybody stands. And when we find evidence of guilt, the thieves must be dealt with. That's why we've organized."
The others nodded agreement, feeling a new respect for him. They agreed to ride to the Wagon Wheel and find out, one way or another, that evening.
Steele opened his desk and brought out a soiled envelope which contained a sheet of cheap paper.
"This was slipped under my door a few days ago," he explained. "Any one of a hundred people might have done it. It tells where Ray Locke is supposed to have hidden part of the loot from at least three robberies. I had intended to turn this over to Sheriff Cassell, but before I could do so, he was killed."
"I can't very well turn it over to our new sheriff, no matter how good an officer he may be. We all know that the Lockes don't get on together, but after all, Ray Locke is his brother, and that would be asking too much. So it seems to be a job for the vigilance committee. Here's the letter, which is unsigned and so may not be trustworthy. It has a map which shows the supposed hiding places. Frankly, I don't believe that you'll find anything, and I hope that it is proved wrong. But if you should—then you'll know what to do."
A feeling of restlessness gripped Locke, making him moody and irritated. It was, he supposed, a sort of homesickness, enhanced by the nearness of the Wagon Wheel and the fact that it was forbidden to him. For seven years, he had subsisted on the hope of coming back, the belief that somehow, some day, matters would resolve themselves. The same feeling had driven him to build a reputation, not only as an honest lawman, but as a town tamer, a man to be both respected and feared. There was no reason he should not at least ride out for another look at his old home, under cover of darkness.
That might prove a melancholy pleasure, but it suited his mood. It was another moon-filled night, not so bright as before. He swung wide, looking over some of the ranch. Sleepy cattle lifted their heads at his passing, faintly curious. He turned toward the buildings, observing that the bunk house was dark. That would mean that the crew were enjoying an evening in town, leaving the ranch practically deserted.
At the sound of his own horse, another nickered softly in the darkness. Locke swung to have a look at the cayuse, and his frown grew thoughtful. There was not one, but six saddled horses, hidden in a coulee, tied to trees. There was no one on guard, so he took a closer look.
Three of the six horses were branded, and all three wore different brands. None was Wagon Wheel. This had a look he didn't like—prowlers, on a night when they had probably known that the crew would be away. Locke moved toward the buildings, and his suspicions seemed verified, though now the visitors were moving openly.
Several men were near the front door of the house; they had just called Ray to the door and were questioning him. Locke paused, back out of sight where he could hear clearly.
"Maybe I am," Ray said slowly. "Maybe I am a thief. What have you got on your minds?"
"So you admit it, eh? It's as well you do, for we've got the goods on you, Ray. We've been looking around, and we sure found plenty."
Ray seemed genuinely surprised. "I don't know what you're talking about," he protested. "I thought—but never mind that. But what have you found? Where?"
"What we've found is loot from some of the robberies, and we found it right where you'd cached it. Take a look." One of the men thrust something forward.
"This is a purse, one that I've seen plenty of times. It belonged to Rarus O'Toole. Rarus was stopped on the road about a month ago and robbed of two thousand dollars, and because he didn't have more than that, he was shot and left for dead. He told about it before he died— how he was shot by a masked man, just because he didn't have more gold. We found this pocketbook and a lot of other stuff in the bottom of a manger in the barn, down under a plank!"
The object was a purse, long and red, the leather somewhat worn. Locke remembered Rarus O'Toole from the old days; he had seen the purse on several occasions, and it was too distinctive to be confused.
"And here's stuff from Conway's place," the speaker went on. He was talking grimly, as though anxious to convince himself. "Here's a gold watch that Mis' Conway always carried when she came to town. This is a brooch, with a diamond in it. And we found near a thousand dollars, cash, in another part of the barn, and part of a poke of dust. Now what have you got to say about it?"
Ray had listened, bewildered and incredulous at first, then with rising anger and dismay. "Is this what you were talking about?" he demanded. "Are you trying to accuse me of stealing this stuff, of being one of the outlaws? Why, Rarus was my friend."
"Friend, was he? Well, this is your place, ain't it? You've had the running of it for years. And we found this stuff hid out."
Ray regarded them bitterly. "Who sent you snooping around?" he demanded. "What right do you think you've got to come on my place, anyhow?"
It might be a natural question, but it was poorly timed. Tempers were rising on both sides. The answer was impatient.
"We've got plenty of right—not that any's needed to deal with your kind. But we're from the vigilance committee, and our aim is to put a stop to this sort of thing!" The speaker gestured with the red pocketbook.