"Then I'm Clark. I remember her, and the cabin."
There was a short silence following that admission. To Dick, it was
filled with the thought of Elizabeth, and of her relation to what he was
about to hear. Again he braced himself for what was coming.
"I suppose," he said at last, "that if I ran away I was in pretty
serious trouble. What was it?"
"We've got no absolute proof that you are Clark, remember. You don't
know, and Maggie Donaldson was considered not quite sane before she
died. I've told you there's a chance you are the other man."
"All right. What had Clark done?"
"He had shot a man."
The reporter was instantly alarmed. If Dick had been haggard before, he
was ghastly now. He got up slowly and held to the back of his chair.
"Not—murder?" he asked, with stiff lips.
"No," Bassett said quickly. "Not at all. See here, you've had about all
you can stand. Remember, we don't even know you are Clark. All I said
was—"
"I understand that. It was murder, wasn't it?"
"Well, there had been a quarrel, I understand. The law allows for that,
I think."
Dick went slowly to the window, and stood with his back to Bassett. For
a long time the room was quiet. In the street below long lines of cars
in front of the hotel denoted the luncheon hour. An Indian woman with a
child in the shawl on her back stopped in the street, looked up at Dick
and extended a beaded belt. With it still extended she continued to
stare at his white face.
"The man died, of course?" he asked at last, without turning.
"Yes. I knew him. He wasn't any great loss. It was at the Clark ranch.
I don't believe a conviction would be possible, although they would try
for one. It was circumstantial evidence."
"And I ran away?"
"Clark ran away," Bassett corrected him. "As I've told you, the
authorities here believe he is dead."
After an even longer silence Dick turned.
"I told you there was a girl. I'd like to think out some way to keep
the thing from her, before I surrender myself. If I can protect her, and
David—"
"I tell you, you don't even know you are Clark."
"All right. If I'm not, they'll know. If I am—I tell you I'm not going
through the rest of my life with a thing like that hanging over me.
Maggie Donaldson was sane enough. Why, when I look back, I know our
leaving the cabin was a flight. I'm not Henry Livingstone's son, because
he never had a son. I can tell you what the Clark ranch house looks
like." And after a pause: "Can you imagine the reverse of a dream when
you've dreamed you are guilty of something and wake up to find you are
innocent? Who was the man?"
Bassett watched him narrowly.
"His name was Lucas. Howard Lucas."
"All right. Now we have that, where does Beverly Carlysle come in?"
"Clark was infatuated with her. The man he shot was the man she had
married."
Shortly after that Dick said he would go to his room. He was still pale,
but his eyes looked bright and feverish, and Bassett went with him,
uneasily conscious that something was not quite right. Dick spoke only
once on the way.
"My head aches like the mischief," he said, and his voice was dull and
lifeless.
He did not want Bassett to go with him, but Bassett went, nevertheless.
Dick's statement, that he meant to surrender himself, had filled him
with uneasiness. He determined, following him along the hall, to keep a
close guard on him for the next few hours, but beyond that, just then,
he did not try to go. If it were humanly possible he meant to smuggle
him out of the town and take him East. But he had an uneasy conviction
that Dick was going to be ill. The mind did strange things with the
body.
Dick sat down on the edge of the bed.
"My head aches like the mischief," he repeated. "Look in that grip and
find me some tablets, will you? I'm dizzy."
He made an effort and stretched out on the bed. "Good Lord," he
muttered, "I haven't had such a headache since—"
His voice trailed off. Bassett, bending over the army kit bag in the
corner, straightened and looked around. Dick was suddenly asleep and
breathing heavily.
For a long time the reporter sat by the side of the bed, watching him
and trying to plan some course of action. He was overcome by his own
responsibility, and by the prospect of tragedy that threatened. That
Livingstone was Clark, and that he would insist on surrendering himself
when he wakened, he could no longer doubt. His mind wandered back to
that day when he had visited the old house as a patient, and from that
along the strange road they had both come since then. He reflected, not
exactly in those terms, that life, any man's life, was only one thread
in a pattern woven of an infinite number of threads, and that to tangle
the one thread was to interfere with all the others. David Livingstone,
the girl in the blue dress, the man twitching uneasily on the bed,
Wilkins the sheriff, himself, who could tell how many others, all
threads.
He swore in a whisper.
The maid tapped at the door. He opened it an inch or so and sent her
off. In view of his new determination even the maid had become a danger.
She was the same elderly woman who looked after his own bedroom, and
she might have known Clark. Just what Providence had kept him from
recognition before this he did not know, but it could not go on
indefinitely.
After an hour or so Bassett locked the door behind him and went down to
lunch. He was not hungry, but he wanted to get out of the room, to think
without that quiet figure before him. Over the pretence of food he faced
the situation. Lying ready to his hand was the biggest story of his
career, but he could not carry it through. It was characteristic of
him that, before abandoning it, he should follow through to the end the
result of its publication. He did not believe, for instance, that
either Dick's voluntary surrender or his own disclosure of the situation
necessarily meant a conviction for murder. To convict a man of a crime
he did not know he had committed would be difficult. But, with his
customary thoroughness he followed that through also. Livingstone
acquitted was once again Clark, would be known to the world as Clark.
The new place he had so painfully made for himself would be gone. The
story would follow him, never to be lived down. And in his particular
profession confidence and respect were half the game. All that would be
gone.
Thus by gradual stages he got back to David, and he struggled for the
motive which lay behind every decisive human act. A man who followed a
course by which he had nothing to gain and everything to lose was either
a fool or was actuated by some profound unselfishness. To save a life?
But with all the resources Clark could have commanded, added to his
personal popularity, a first degree sentence would have been unlikely.
Not a life, then, but perhaps something greater than a life. A man's
soul.
It came to him, then, in a great light of comprehension, the thing David
had tried to do; to take this waster and fugitive, the slate of his mind
wiped clean by shock and illness, only his childish memories remaining,
and on it to lead him to write a new record. To take the body he had
found, and the always untouched soul, and from them to make a man.
And with that comprehension came the conviction, too, that David had
succeeded. He had indeed made a man.
He ate absently, consulting his railroad schedule and formulating the
arguments he meant to use against Dick's determination to give himself
up. He foresaw a struggle there, but he himself held one or two strong
cards—the ruthless undoing of David's work, the involving of David for
conspiring against the law. And Dick's own obligation to the girl at
home.
He was more at ease in the practical arrangements. An express went
through on the main line at midnight, and there was a local on the
branch line at eight. But the local train, the railway station, too,
were full of possible dangers. After some thought he decided to get a
car, drive down to the main line with Dick, and then send the car back.
He went out at once and made an arrangement for a car, and on returning
notified the clerk that he was going to leave, and asked to have his
bill made out. After some hesitation he said: "I'll pay three-twenty
too, while I'm at it. Friend of mine there, going with me. Yes, up to
to-night."
As he turned away he saw the short, heavy figure of Wilkins coming in.
He stood back and watched. The sheriff went to the desk, pulled the
register toward him and ran over several pages of it. Then he shoved it
away, turned and saw him.
"Been away, haven't you?" he asked.
"Yes. I took a little horseback trip into the mountains. My knees are
still not on speaking terms."
The sheriff chuckled. Then he sobered.
"Come and sit down," he said. "I'm going to watch who goes in and out of
here for a while."
Bassett followed him unwillingly to two chairs that faced the desk and
the lobby. He had the key of Dick's room in his pocket, but he knew that
if he wakened he could easily telephone and have his door unlocked.
But that was not his only anxiety. He had a sudden conviction that
the sheriff's watch was connected with Dick himself. Wilkins, from a
friendly and gregarious fellow-being, had suddenly grown to sinister
proportions in his mind.
And, as the minutes went by, with the sheriff sitting forward and
watching the lobby and staircase with intent, unblinking eyes, Bassett's
anxiety turned to fear. He found his heart leaping when the room
bells rang, and the clerk, with a glance at the annunciator, sent boys
hurrying off. His hands shook, and he felt them cold and moist. And all
the time Wilkins was holding him with a flow of unimportant chatter.
"Watching for any one in particular?" he managed, after five minutes or
so.
"Yes. I'll tell you about it as soon as—Bill! Is Alex outside?"
Bill stopped in front of them, and nodded.
"All right. Now get this—I want everything decent and in order. No
excitement. I'll come out behind him, and you and Bill stand by. Outside
I'll speak to him, and when we walk off, just fall in behind. But keep
close."
Bill wandered off, to take up a stand of extreme nonchalance inside the
entrance. When Wilkins turned to him again Bassett had had a moment to
adjust himself, and more or less to plan his own campaign.
"Somebody's out of luck," he commented. "And speaking of being out of
luck, I've got a sick man on my hands. Friend of mine from home. We've
got to catch the midnight, too."
"Too bad," Wilkins commented rather absently. Then, perhaps feeling that
he had not shown proper interest, "Tell you what I'll do. I've got some
business on hand now, but it'll be cleared up one way or another pretty
soon. I'll bring my car around and take him to the station. These hacks
are the limit to ride in."
The disaster to his plans thus threatened steadied the reporter, and he
managed to keep his face impassive.
"Thanks," he said. "I'll let you know if he's able to travel. Is
this—is this business you're on confidential?"
"Well, it is and it isn't. I've talked some to you, and as you're
leaving anyhow—it's the Jud Clark case again."
"Sort of hysteria, I suppose. He'll be seen all over the country for the
next six months."
"Yes. But I never saw a hysterical Indian. Well, a little while ago an
Indian woman named Lizzie Lazarus blew into my office. She's a smart
woman. Her husband was a breed, dairy hand on the Clark ranch for years.
Lizzie was the first Indian woman in these parts to go to school, and
besides being smart, she's got Indian sight. You know these Indians.
When they aren't blind with trachoma they can see further and better
than a telescope."
Bassett made an effort.
"What's that got to do with Jud Clark?" he asked.
"Well, she blew in. You know there was a reward out for him, and I guess
it still stands. I'll have to look it up, for if Maggie Donaldson wasn't
crazy some one will turn him up some day, probably. Well, Lizzie blew
in, and she said she'd seen Jud Clark. Saw him standing at a second
story window of this hotel. Can you beat that?"
"Not for pure invention. Hardly."
"That's what I said at first. But I don't know. In some ways it would
be like him. He wouldn't mind coming back and giving us the laugh, if
he thought he could get away with it. He didn't know fear. Only time he
ever showed funk was when he beat it after the shooting, and then he was
full of hootch, and on the edge of D.T.'s."
"A man doesn't play jokes with the hangman's rope," Bassett commented,
dryly. He looked at his watch and rose. "It's a good story, but I
wouldn't wear out any trouser-seats sitting here watching for him. If
he's living he's taken pretty good care for ten years not to put his
head in the noose; and I'd remember this, too. Wherever he is, if he is
anywhere, he's probably so changed his appearance that Telescope Lizzie
wouldn't know him. Or you either."
"Probably," the sheriff said, comfortably. "Still I'm not taking any
chances. I'm up for reelection this fall, and that Donaldson woman's
story nearly queered me. I've got a fellow at the railroad station, just
for luck."
Bassett went up the stairs and along the corridor, deep in dejected
thought. The trap of his own making was closing, and his active mind was
busy with schemes for getting Dick away before it shut entirely.
It might be better, in one way, to keep Livingstone there in his room
until the alarm blew over. On the other hand, Livingstone himself had
to be dealt with, and that he would remain quiescent under the
circumstances was unlikely. The motor to the main line seemed to be the
best thing. True, he would have first to get Livingstone to agree to go.
That done, and he did not underestimate its difficulty, there was the
question of getting him out of the hotel, now that the alarm had been
given.