Square Deal Sanderson by Charles Alden Seltzer (fiction book recommendations TXT) 📕

sound near him.

He expected sound to come; he waited for it, his ears attuned, his senses alert.

And at last sound came.

It was a mere creak—such a sound as a foot might make on a stairway. And it seemed to have come from the stairs leading to Maison's rooms.

He did not hear it again, though, and he might have fought off the new terror that was gripping him, if at that instant he had not remembered that when leaving the lower room he had forgotten to lock the rear door—the door through which Morley had entered earlier in the evening; the door through which Silverthorn had departed.

He had not locked that door, and that noise on the stairs might have been made by some night prowler.

Aroused to desperation by his fears he started to get out of bed with the intention of getting the revolver that lay in a drawer in the sideboard.

His feet were on the floor as he sat on the edge of the bed preparatory to standing, when he saw the door at the head of the stairs slowly swing open and a figure of a man appear in the opening.

The light in the room was faint—a mere luminous star-mist—hut Maison could see clearly the man's face. He stiffened, his hands gripping the bedclothing, as he muttered hoarsely:

"Sanderson!"

Sanderson stepped into the room and closed the door. The heavy six-shooter in his hand was at his hip, the long barrel horizontal, the big muzzle gaping forebodingly into Maison's face. There was a cold, mirthless grin on Sanderson's face, but it seemed to Maison that the grin was the wanton expression of murder lust.

He knew, without Sanderson telling him, that if he moved, or made the slightest outcry, Sanderson would kill him.

Therefore he made neither move nor sound, but sat there, rigid and gasping for breath, awaiting the other's pleasure.

Sanderson came close to him, speaking in a vibrant whisper:

"Anyone in the house with you? If you speak above a whisper I'll blow you apart!"

"I'm alone!" gasped Maison.

Sanderson laughed lowly. "You must have known I was comin'. Did you expect me? Well—" when Maison did not answer—"you left the rear door open. Obliged to you.

"You know what I came for? No?" His voice was still low and vibrant. "I came to talk over what happened at Devil's Hole."

Maison's eyes bulged with horror.

"I see you know about it, all right. I'm glad of that. Seven men murdered; three thousand head of cattle gone. Mebbe they didn't all go into the quicksand—I don't know. What I do know is this: they've got to be paid for—men an' cattle. Understand? Cattle an' men."

The cold emphasis he laid on the "and" made a shiver run over the banker.

"Money will pay for cattle," went on Sanderson. "I'll collect a man for every man you killed at Devil's Hole."

He laughed in feline humor when Maison squirmed at the words.

"You think your life is more valuable than the life of any one of the men you killed at Devil's Hole, eh? Soapy was worth a hundred like you! An' Sogun—an' all the rest! Understand? They were real men, doin' some good in the world. I'm tellin' you this so you'll know that I don't think you amount to a hell of a lot, an' that I wouldn't suffer a heap with remorse if you'd open your trap for one little peep an' I'd have to blow your guts out!"

A devil of conscience had finally visited Maison—a devil in the flesh. For all the violent passions were aflame in Sanderson's face, repressed but needing only provocation to loose them.

Maison knew what impended. But he succeeded in speaking, though the words caught, stranglingly, in his throat:

"W-what do you—want?"

"Ninety thousand dollars. The market price for three thousand head of cattle."

"There isn't that much in the vaults!" protested Maison in a gasping whisper. "We never keep that amount of money on hand."

He would have said more, but he saw Sanderson's grin become bitter; saw the arm holding the six-shooter stiffen suggestively.

Maison raised his hands in horror.

"Wait!" he said, pleadingly. "I'll see. Good God, man, keep the muzzle of that gun away!"

"Ninety thousand will do it," Sanderson grimly told him, "ninety thousand. No less. You can ask that God you call on so reckless to have ninety thousand in the vault when you go to look for it, right away.

"Get up an' dress!" he commanded.

He stood silently watching the banker as the latter got into his clothing. Then, with a wave of his gun in the direction of the stairs he ordered Maison to precede him. He kept close to the banker in the darkness of the rooms through which they passed, and finally when they reached the little room into which opened the big doors of the vault—embedded in solid masonry—Sanderson again spoke:

"I want it in bills of large denomination." The banker was on his knees before the doors, working at the combination, and he looked around in silent objection at Sanderson's voice.

"Big ones, I said," repeated the latter. "You've got them. I was in Silverthorn's rooms some hours ago, lookin' over his books an' things. I saw a note there, showin' that he'd deposited fifty thousand here the day before yesterday. The note said it was cash. You'll have forty thousand more. If you ain't got it you'll wish you had."

Maison had it. He drew it out in packages—saffron-hued notes that he passed back to Sanderson reluctantly. When he had passed back the exact amount he looked around.

Sanderson ordered him to close the doors, and with the banker preceding him they returned to the upper room, where Sanderson distributed the money over his person securely, the banker watching him.

When Sanderson had finished, he again spoke. There was elation in his eyes, but they still were aflame with the threat of death and violence.

"Who's the biggest an' most honest man in town?" he said, "the one man that the folks here always think of when they're in trouble an' want a square deal? Every town always has such a man. Who is he?"

"Judge Graney," said Maison.

"All right," declared Sanderson. "We'll go see Judge Graney. You're goin' to lead me to the place where he lives. We're goin' to have him witness that you've paid me ninety thousand dollars for the stock you destroyed—my cattle. He's goin' to be all the law I'm goin' to depend on—in this case. After a while—if you sneaks go too strong—I'll let loose a little of my own law—the kind I've showed you tonight.

"You're goin' to Judge Graney's place, an' you're goin' to sign a paper showin' you paid me the money for my cattle. You ain't goin' to make any noise on the way, or to Judge Graney. You're goin' to do the talkin' an' tell Graney that you want him to witness the deal. An' you're goin' to do it without him gettin' wise that I'm forcin' you. You'll have to do some actin', an' if you fall down on this job you'll never have to act again! Get goin'!"

Maison was careful not to make any noise as he went down the stairs; he was equally careful when he reached the street.

In a short time, Sanderson walking close behind him, he halted at a door of a private dwelling. He knocked on the door, and a short, squat man appeared in the opening, holding a kerosene lamp in one hand and a six-shooter in the other.

He recognized Maison instantly and politely asked him and his visitor inside. There Maison stated his business, and the judge, though revealing some surprise that so big a transaction should be concluded at so uncommon an hour, attested the paper made out by Maison, and signed the receipt for ninety thousand dollars written by Sanderson and given to the banker. Then, still followed by Sanderson, the banker went out.

There was no word spoken by either of the men until they again reached the bank building. Then it was Sanderson who spoke.

"That's all, Maison," he said. "Talk, if you must—mebbe it'll keep you from explodin'. But if there's any more meddlin' with my affairs—by you—I'm comin' for you again. An' the next time it'll be to make you pay for my men!"

He slipped behind the bank building and was gone. A little later, still standing where Sanderson had left him, he saw the Double A man riding swiftly across country toward the neck of the basin.

Maison went slowly upstairs, lighted a lamp, and looked at his reflection in a glass. He sighed, blew out the light, got into bed and stretched out in relief, feeling that he had got out of the affair cheaply enough, considering all things.

And remembering what Sanderson had told him about returning, he determined that if Judge Graney said nothing of the occurrence he would never mention it. For he did not want Sanderson to pay him another visit.

CHAPTER XXII A MAN FROM THE ABYSS

At about the time Sanderson was entering Okar, Alva Dale was letting himself into the door of his office at the Bar D ranchhouse. Dale's thoughts, because of the sensuous longing with which he had always looked upon Peggy Nyland, had become abysmal. Silverthorn had warned him that the dragging of a woman into the plot would be fatal to their aims, but Dale had paid no heed to Silverthorn. During the day he had kept thinking of the girl until now he could no longer restrain himself. His face was bestial with passion as he entered his office.

Inside the office he lighted a lamp and seated himself at his desk. There, with a pair of shears and a piece of black cloth, he fashioned a mask. He donned the mask and peered at himself in a mirror, grinning with satisfaction over the reflection. Had he not known himself for Alva Dale he would have been fooled by the covering.

Working swiftly, he changed his clothes. Then, after again looking at his reflection, he put out the light, stepped outside, locked the door, and mounted his horse.

Riding a ridge above a shallow arroyo he came upon a little level near a grove of cottonwood trees. He circled one side of the grove, and in a clearing he saw the Nyland cabin.

He had visited the cabin before, but never had he felt about it as he felt at this moment. There had always been the presence of Ben Nyland to dampen the romantic thoughts that had beset him—for there had been a time when—if Peggy Nyland had been willing—he would have married her.

That time had passed. Dale grinned wickedly as he dismounted and walked forward.

There was no light showing in any of the windows, and Dale stepped stealthily to the rear door and knocked.

There was no answer; and Dale repeated the blows. Then he grinned With delight as he heard Peggy's voice, high-pitched and startled, saying:

"Who's there?"

"It's me—Sanderson," he returned. "I've come for you!"

"What for?" This time there was alarm in the girl's voice, and Dale heard her walk across the floor and halt at the door. He mentally visualized her, standing there, one ear against the panel.

"Didn't they tell you?" he said in a hoarse voice, into which he succeeded in getting much pretended anger. "Why, I sent a man over here with word."

"Word about what?"

Dale heard the girl fumbling at the fastenings of the door, and he knew that his imitation of Sanderson's voice had deceived her.

"Word that Ben was hurt," he lied. "The east train hit him as it was pullin' in. He's bad off, but the doc says he'll come around if he gets good nursin', an' that's why I've come——"

While he was talking the door burst open and Peggy appeared in the opening, her eyes wide with concern and eagerness.

She had heard Dale's first knock on the door, and knowing it was someone for her—perhaps Ben returning—she had begun to dress, finishing—except for her shoes and stockings—by the time she opened the door.

In the dim light