The Outlaw E-Book

Max Brand

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Young Larry Lynmouth had been the most fabulous outlaw of them all. Now he was determined to go straight. But going straight wasn’t that easy-not with ugly leeches like Jay Cress around, who couldn’t believe any man was fool enough to be honest. Renowned Western writer Max Brand does it again in the eminently enjoyable novel „The Outlaw”. Packed with enough action, twists and turns to please even the most die-hard fans of the genre, the novel also addresses a wide range of important themes with insight and sensitivity. This classic’s appeal extends far beyond the core audience for Westerns – give it to a yet-to-be-won-over friend or loved one, and soon they’ll be clamoring for more.

Leseprobe

Contents

1. TO HELP THE BANK

2. HONEST MONEY

3. BAD TIDINGS

4. DRY POWDER

5. REPUTATION!

6. "DON'T SHOOT!"

7. NEVER AGAIN!

8. THE WORLD IS A DESERT

9. ADVICE FROM THE SHERIFF

10. HARRY DAY COMES—AND GOES

11. FEARLESS FRIAR

12. TWO KNOCKS AT ONE DOOR

13. CHERRY DANIELS

14. A NEW ADMIRER

15. VICTORY FOR THE SHERIFF

16. IN JAIL!

17. ON TRIAL

18. GOLDEN BOOK

19. LYNMOUTH FINDS HIS WINGS

20. OUTSIDE THE MILL

21. ALARM

22. THE SHERIFF SAYS "SHOOT!"

23. JAY CRESS HAS A PLAN

24. FOUR LITTLE LAMBS

25. THE STATE OF THE MOON

26. AN ARGUMENT ENDED

27. THE STAGE STARTS

28. THE STAGE STOPS

29. HORSES AND MEN

30. TURK HENLEY TALKS

31. FOUR MEN WAITING

32. JUDGE BORE SPEAKS HIS MIND

33. THUMBS DOWN!

34. DARK AND FAIR

35. TWO GIRLS RIDE

36. FAILURE

37. GOOD ADVICE

38. FREAK OF FATE

39. "OPEN, SESAME!"

40. FREE!

41. FLAMES AND FANCIES

42. PERIL'S PATH

43. ALL THAT MATTERS

1. TO HELP THE BANK

NORTHWEST of Crooked Horn, where the most prosperous ranches were located, ran a little wabbling line of telephone poles. Over this line, from ten miles away, came the news on this bright spring morning.

As soon as the word arrived in Crooked Horn, it spread to the limits of the little town like the proverbial ripple around the fallen stone.

The presidents and chief officers of each of the two banks ran out from their buildings and returned with armed men, who were placed in positions of advantage inside and outside the buildings.

Deputy Sheriff Neilan took his post with two assistants at the post office.

Isaac Stein, the owner of the pawnshop and jewelry store, went in frantic haste for his two nephews, who were placed behind the counter with double-barreled riot guns in their hands. Also, he ran out and hailed two passers-by. They were closed in the back room, where there was nothing worth stealing, but through the entrance to which they could fire into the front chamber. They, also, were equipped with riot guns.

Up and down the main street of Crooked Horn there were six saloons, and three stores, besides the hotel. From the hotel, the stores, and the saloons, came hastening men carrying sacks of cash and notes from cash drawers and registers. These sums of money were hastily deposited at one or the other of the banks.

Two of the stores and three of the saloons closed down, locked doors, windows, and shutters, and the proprietors remained inside under arms, while outposts were placed in upper windows.

“Faro Pete” closed his layout, locked it, barred and bolted it, and brought his cash to the Merchants’ Loan & Trust. After that, he did not delay, but mounted his fastest horse and spurred out of town with a desperate face.

“Two-gun” Billy Lambert had no cash to deposit, but he also mounted his best horse, and, with both his guns, and a rifle besides, dashed from Crooked Horn, taking the river road.

Young Sam Townsend, recently notorious and famous for his battle with the Brintons on the lower Pecos, followed the two good examples which had just been set. Young Sam did not even wait to dress fully. Rising in an undershirt and a pair of trousers–he had been out late the night before at a quiet poker game–Sam went out of Crooked Horn lashing his horse at every jump.

The citizens, however, who could not pretend either to a stock of hard cash or to any great reputation as gamblers, crooks, or man-killers, appeared rather unconcerned. They merely made sure that their children and womenfolks were safely within doors. They themselves were to be seen at posts of vantage, such as the corners of the central plaza, or perhaps idling in their gardens–if they were particularly cautious men.

A telephone message was sent to Stephen’s Crossing, to the south, that it might be well to get a posse of picked men ready to take horse. Another message reached First Chance, in the northern desert, to take similar precautions. County Sheriff Dan Peach was warned in a similar manner at his home, twenty miles away; and he announced that he was taking horse immediately to appear on the scene as soon as four strong legs could gallop the distance.

So Crooked Horn and the country round made what preparation could be made, and then waited, holding its breath. At the bridge, on the north road, young Joe Masters volunteered to take his post and signal from the top of the big cottonwood as soon as he was apprised of the danger coming down the road.

Doctor Crosswell, watching with glasses from the roof of his home, presently was able to see a white cloth waved from the top of the cottonwood, and in this manner he was able to know that the danger was, indeed, coming down the north road, and that it was close at hand.

He climbed down from the roof, and from an upper window he shouted the tidings to the street, where it ran up and down like wildfire. Every soul in Crooked Horn knew in another instant, and the town held its breath even more.

Then, around the turn beyond the hotel, a single rider appeared. As he came closer, it could be seen that he was mounted on a cream-colored horse.

“It’s him, and he’s on Fortune!” went the word down the street.

Then the rider came still closer, and a dozen glasses made out his face in the distance.

“It’s Larry Lynmouth himself, riding the mare, Fortune!”

Mouths gaped, and eyes widened. Women grew pale behind windows. Children stood tiptoe. Little girls trembled. Little boys shuddered with ecstatic joy.

Yet even to those who knew his face, even to those who had studied the familiar features a thousand times in a thousand newspaper photographs, it was a shock to see him as he actually was, in the flesh.

He was exactly twenty-four years old. He had been famous for almost half that time.

He was said to have killed twenty-four men, that is to say, a man a year. He had been arrested five times. He had broken away from his captors twice on the way to prison–once by the expedient of jumping out the window of a rapidly moving train and falling forty feet from the bridge it was crossing, into the water beneath. (This had been done with irons on hands and feet, so that for three months it had been considered certain that he lay dead in the mud of the river bottom.)

Three times, safely lodged behind bars, he had broken out. Once it was apparently by bribery. Once he had taken a jailer by the throat and forced the man to unlock the doors. Once he had worked a passage through three feet of solid masonry from a dark cell!

He had been hunted by private detectives, by public posses, by the most expert officers of the law, from Dawson to Panama, and from San Francisco to Halifax.

He was known to have “stuck up” at least six stages, and he was more than suspected of having a hand in three train robberies–one of them the spectacular holdup of the T. & L. train by a single man. Two bank robberies definitely were traced to his name, and twenty others were attributed to him.

But now Larry Lynmouth rode unharmed down the main street of Crooked Horn. Society stood on guard, but society dared not touch him without new provocation, for a scant two weeks before, he had been cleared and pardoned for all crime by the proclamations of five governors within whose territories he had committed the deeds of which he had been accused, and for which he had been tried in the past.

Except for a new offense, there was no use in arresting him again, because it was so certain that no jury would convict him. For it was now hardly a month since the affair of the Ridley Dam, and all men remembered how he had ridden a hundred miles between dusk and dawn, and, by the aid of this same beautiful mare, Fortune, had come to the Ridley Dam in time to stop the dastards who had planned to blast the big structure to a ruin. Sheer blindly venomous sabotage on their part, regardless of the crowded homes which huddled unprotected in the valley below the dam.

For this reason, Crooked Horn was on guard and held its breath, but dared not lift its hand.

And for all these reasons Crooked Horn stared with amazement upon the real facts about Lynmouth, as they appeared in his physical presence.

Where were the wild rumors about him? Where were they to be lodged?

As for his gigantic strength, how could it be confined in a rather slender body, certainly not over, but under six feet in height?

As for his gaudy clothes, he was dressed neatly, to be sure, but not unlike any other cow-puncher. Unless one were to take note of the manner in which the mane and tail of the mare had been braided. There was some openwork of gold, in the Mexican style, glittering on his tall sombrero. That was all! No silver conchos, no gaudy blues and reds.

And then, finally, those tales of grim ferocity–who could give them a local habitation and a name in connection with such a handsome and open young face? His blue eyes, to be sure, rested on one with a glance as straight as a rifle barrel steady on its mark, but a faint, continual smile of good nature appeared on his lips.

All the way before him, people stared, mute. All the way behind him, down that street, a murmur of comment arose.

Dangerous as a snake?

Not a bit of it! Not if they could read faces, as they thanked Heaven they could!

He stopped where?

Straight in front of the First National!

A wild buzz of excitement swept through Crooked Horn.

Was it possible that he would walk in there among those heavily armed and prepared fighting men? Would he walk into that set trap and try to rob the place?

He could not do it, under a miracle. But then, miracles were a favorite diet of this young man. Crooked Horn–at least, the citizens who had no deposits in the First National–rather wished that the miracle could be attempted. And, if attempted, who could wish bad luck to so amiable a young man, who wore a smile upon his face?

The door of the bank was locked. But it was slowly opened when he knocked.

He went straight to the president’s desk and took out a wallet. Three armed men watched him from the corners of the room as he counted out sixty-two bank notes of five hundred dollars each. He pushed these across to President Baynes.

“Are you opening an account, Larry?” asked the banker, amazed.

“No,” said Larry Lynmouth. “That’s just a present to help the old bank along.”

President Baynes counted the money, stupefied. Thirty-one thousand dollars!

And then that sum shocked his mind into understanding. Four years ago a desperado, single-handed, had walked into that bank in the middle of the afternoon, and walked out again with thirty- one thousand dollars in hard cash.

He looked up, but Lynmouth was already gone.

“Stop him!” cried Baynes. “No, it’s no use!”

“He’s gone across to the Merchants’ Loan & Trust,” they told him.

“The Merchants’ Loan & Trust? They’ve lost nothing! But–give me a drink, somebody. I’m ten years younger all in a minute, and I can’t stand the shock!”

2. HONEST MONEY

STRAIGHT across to the Merchants’ Loan & Trust Bank went Mr. Larry Lynmouth.

At the door, he was met by a man with a hand in each coat pocket, and in either hand there was a short-nosed bulldog revolver. The porter nodded, and pointed his weapons, as well as he could, at the midriff of the robber.

“Kind of a warm day, Mr. Lynmouth?”

“It’s hot as the deuce,” agreed Larry Lynmouth. “Where’s President Oliver?”

“Right in here,” said the other. “I’ll take you in.”

He walked behind Lynmouth. His jaw was hard set. The killing of Larry Lynmouth would be a famous deed, even if the shots came from behind.

“Looks bad for this bank,” said Lynmouth, halting.

“What does?” asked the porter.

“All the boys must be packing their own flasks. I never saw so many bulging pockets. Yours, for instance?”

He turned to the porter. He was smiling, but the porter never had found a smile so hard to endure. He flushed; then he lost all his color, as though it had been covered with whitewash.

“Well–well–” he stammered.

“Never drink whisky when the thermometer climbs above ninety,” said Larry Lynmouth. “But no doubt that’s lemonade you have in each hand?”

The porter could have groaned, but he restrained himself. It was plain that the eye of Lynmouth had seen through his coat, as if with an X-ray. How many nights could he spend hereafter, untroubled by the nightmare?

He lost his ambition to kill an outlaw. He wished that he never had seen Larry Lynmouth. He wished that he never had seen Crooked Horn, even.

So he stepped ahead and rapped on the door of President William Oliver of the Merchants’ Loan & Trust Bank. He opened the door.

“Mr. Larry Lynmouth to see you, Mr. Oliver,” said he.

He blushed as he spoke. As if he had to announce the name when, for the last five minutes, the whisper of it had been enriching every nook and corner of the bank!

“Come in with Mr. Lynmouth,” said President Oliver.

They went in together.

President Oliver had turned a little from his desk. In the drawer he had a good, old-fashioned, single-action revolver, which he had used in the days of his youth, and used well. The inside breast pocket of his coat was well filled, not by a wallet, but by a little two-shot pistol which could kill as well as a Colt–at ten paces. He understood all about that little pistol, too. He had practiced half an hour a day with it ever since he could remember. So President Oliver, though perhaps a trifle high in color, met the eye of the robber with a steady glance.

“Hello, Lynmouth,” said he.

“You’re Mr. Oliver?” said the young man.

There was something precise as well as graceful about him. His smile paused. His step paused. His whole attitude was one of pleasant suspense. President Oliver felt like a yokel.

“Yes, that’s my name,” said he.

Then he stood up and held out his hand, trying to cover up his breach of etiquette by saying:

“I forgot that I’m not so well known as you are, Lynmouth. How are you?”

His hand was taken in a firm, quick grasp.

After it, Lynmouth drew back just a shade. And Oliver almost smiled. It was so plain that this young man, no matter what his present good will, was not accustomed to shaking hands. To surrender that invincible and terrible right hand of his to the grasp of another must have been to him like blindfolding to a tight-wire performer.

He motioned to the chair at his right hand. It was bolted to the floor, to prevent overconfidential callers from hitching it too close. But Lynmouth, after a glance at it, shook his head.

Two windows and a door opened behind that chair. Could they have had anything to do with his reluctance to take it?

“I’ve been sitting half the day–the saddle,” said he.

“You’re one of these iron men,” said the banker. “Well, stand if you please.”

“Thanks,” said Lynmouth.

He drifted to the other side of the desk. That put him on the president’s left hand. An awkward position for a draw from an inside coat pocket. Oliver noted that, and said nothing. He summoned a smile, and resolutely maintained it; but his color was heightened.

How could Lynmouth know that behind each of the three doors opening to the room armed men now were posted, to say nothing of the two night watchmen who were on guard outside and underneath the window of the room?

Lynmouth was looking out that window.

“Good view, here,” said he.

“Yes, of the mountains,” said the banker.

“And of sombreros, too,” said Lynmouth.

He was cool as metal. Plainly he had seen the heads of the two guards outside the window, and recognized the reason for their presence. And the color ebbed out of Oliver’s face. But he was himself a very brave man. He felt that he had arranged this matter so well that, no matter what came to him, his assailant never could escape alive. On the spot he renounced all hope of ever matching young Larry Lynmouth. The fellow was too calm. His adroitness of hand, in some manner, gleamed in his blue eyes. Never had the banker seen eyes so blue, except in one person, whose name he could not at the moment bring to mind.

“Opening an account?” asked the banker.

“I’m collecting a note,” said Lynmouth.

“Note?”

“Yes. To be exact, it is a check that I have.”

“Very glad to see it.”

He held out his hand. And into that hand was dropped a wrinkled check signed “Everett Morton.” It was for twenty-eight thousand, eight hundred and seventy-four dollars.

The banker stared. That was the one account in the bank that every person in the place knew about. Even the janitor could have told how much was in the account of Everett Morton. It was for exactly that amount.

Nobody ever had seen Everett Morton. The account had been opened by mail and continued by mail. Everett Morton was a mystery, so far as the Merchants’ Loan & Trust was concerned. A thirty-thousand-dollar mystery!

“I have a note for you, too.”

Lynmouth dropped the note into the banker’s hand. Like the check, it was travel-stained and pocket-wrinkled. It read:

Merchants’ Loan & Trust Bank, Crooked Horn.

Dear Sirs:

With regret I am closing my account in your institution with a check made out to Mr. Larry Lynmouth, in payment of an old debt.

Yours very truly,

Everett Morton

There was no need to consult any one.

Oliver himself was perfectly familiar with the handwriting of the mysterious Morton, and he could have sworn that this was correct. The check was right. The amount was exactly that of the account. All seemed regular.

And yet–just suppose that the check had been written at the point of a gun?

He hesitated. He colored. But suddenly he said:

“It’s a big check, Lynmouth.”

“Yes. It’s a big check,” agreed Lynmouth, and waited.

“Suppose I ask the nature of the debt? I mean to say–I must be careful, Lynmouth.”

“I might have held him up for the check, you mean?”

“Well–of course I don’t mean that–but–”

“You don’t offend me, Mr. Oliver. The nature of the debt consisted of a series of loans.”

“Ah? Loans?”

“Yes.”

“Loans,” said Oliver, and pulled at his tobacco-stained mustache. He was in a quandary. He wanted to be polite. But he was the most honest man in the world. Very simple to cash this check, but Oliver was, like many a banker–in spite of what part of the world may say–perfectly willing to die for the integrity of his institution. It was his. He had conceived it, made it, cherished it, nourished it through panics and droughts. He had turned the First National from a little boy to a big man. The Merchants’ Loan & Trust was growing healthily. And how could he protect the mysterious interests of Everett Morton?

So he flushed deeper, and stirred in his chair.

“Mr. Lynmouth?”

“Yes, sir?”

How neat and crisp an answer, and phrased like a boy speaking to his respected elder!

“I haven’t the right to ask. Yet, I can’t help asking how you got this money?”

“Suppose I explain?”

“Then I should have to hand over this money to you.”

“I’ll tell you how I got it,” said the robber. “Most of my money I’ve brought home at the end of a gun. I didn’t fish for this in that manner, however. No, I got it in another way. I bought a five-year-old that was lame. I paid twenty-five dollars that I made by working a month at J. P. Ristall’s ranch. He may remember. I bought that horse from him, and sold it for a hundred and fifty to Tom Mays, of Estobal. I took that hundred and fifty and played Chris Morgan’s faro game in Phoenix. I walked out with twenty-two hundred, and loaned two thousand to Everett Morton. He made his first deposit here, at that time. With the extra two hundred, I grubstaked Lew Mason. Lew found the Prairie Dust Mine in the Mogollons, that time. My half went to fourteen thousand. I loaned twelve to Everett Morton, and he sent it in to deposit here. I soaked the other two thousand into Mexican beef that I fattened in the Big Bend, and cleaned up seven thousand clear! I gave six to Everett Morton. He banked it here, and I put–”

“Wait a moment. It seems that this is all honest money, Lynmouth.”

The robber looked carefully about him. Then he said with a smile:

“I don’t see any Bible about. Perhaps you’ll take my word for it, Mr. Oliver?”

“Yes!” said Oliver suddenly. “I certainly shall.”

3. BAD TIDINGS

IT would not have been a hard story to have concocted. As for the names and dates, however, they could be verified, easily. And yet Oliver felt that they need not be verified. Something leaped in him, and told him that the boy was speaking the truth. He tapped on the desk with rapid fingers. Everett Morton must be protected, of course.

“You want to cash this now?” he asked.

“No. I want to open an account for this sum.”

“Give me your check,” said the banker. He took out a bank book and passed it across the desk. “Your checks will be good for this amount. Give me your check for this amount, and I open the account in your name. I believe you, my lad.”

There was a knock at the door.

William Oliver turned toward it rather impatiently.

“Mr. Jay Cress calling, Mr. Oliver.”

“Tell him I’m busy. And don’t open that door again unless I tell you to.”

“Cress?” said Lynmouth, as the door closed.

“Cress, the gambler,” said the banker shortly.

“Cress, the gambler!” exclaimed the robber. “I took fifteen hundred from a fellow named Cress, one day. I’d just learned to stack the pack and run it up with one crimp in it.”

“Cress? Mole in the middle of the forehead?”

“Yes. That’s the man.”

He leaned to the making of his check, and the banker stared at him. Those fingers were slender and smooth, and faintly marked by the seams of the gloves he had been wearing, gloves as delicately smooth as the skin of a fawn, nicely thinned. Such gloves would save the tactile delicacy of the fingers of a gambler, yet not interfere with a gun play to any extent.

And how easily this youth had confessed that he was himself a crooked gambler–the deepest detestation of William Oliver!

Yet the head was a noble one. Seeing it canted above the writing; the banker regarded it with care. He was almost a believer in phrenology, and he could see nothing wrong here. The bumps were in the right places, beyond doubt. A child could have guessed that, knowing nothing about phrenology. There were none of the signs of brutality in the lack of size behind the ears to balance the forward portion of the skull. The eyes, too, were big, widely separated. The nose was straight. The mouth was sensitive, though perhaps there was rather too much mobile strength in the upper lip, such as one sees so often in the upper lip of an actor.

Whatever the moral character of the robber, the banker felt that in him there were the possibilities of good. Far more than that, however, he was certain of strength. This was a machine capable of lifting great weights, and lifting them with speed. The young man looked to have the easy decision of a philosopher, and the handicraft of a gymnast. He was all in good balance, like a made-to-order shotgun.

Oliver took the check.

“Wait here a moment,” said he, and left the room.

He took the slip of paper to his cashier.

“Lynmouth wants to open an account,” said he. “With Morton’s money.”

He placed the other check and the note beside the check of the robber.

“Do you make anything of that?”

The cashier was a very old man. The rosy hue of his scalp shone through his white, sparse hair. He took a reading glass and leaned for two critical minutes above the three specimens. Then he looked up and folded the glass into its case.

“What do you expect me to find, Mr. Oliver?”

“Similarities!” barked the banker roughly. “Any similarities?”

“I should say,” said the other, “that Morton is the well- trained left hand of Larry Lynmouth.”

“You mean that there is no Morton at all?”

“I should say not. These letters have the same mind behind them. I imagine that they’re merely the work of a right hand here, and a left hand there. Suppose you look at the up and down strokes–”

He produced the reading glass.

“I’d rather have your opinion than mine,” said William Oliver.

He hesitated, and made a turn or two through the room. He was in a deep quandary, which he decided on a sudden impulse. With a snap of his fingers, he said:

“Enter this money for the account of Larry Lynmouth. I may be a fool. It may be stolen money. But I can’t help believing at least part of the story which he’s been telling me, and that this account is honest!”

He went back to his office, and there he found young Lynmouth standing exactly where he had been standing before, and in a characteristic pose. That is to say, his head was flung well back, and his hands were clasped behind him, and he had the expression of one contemplating a pleasant fancy.

“I’ve taken the account over in your name,” said the banker. “The thing is finished. I hope that I can believe what you’ve told me about the honest money. I do believe it, in fact.”

“Thank you,” said the robber.

“And I can’t help wondering,” went on the banker, “if this means a change in your way of life?”

“I think it does,” said Larry Lynmouth.

“And that you’re going to settle down, young man?”

“Yes,” said he. “I’m going to settle down. Marriage usually means that, sir.”

“Yes, marriage usually means that. You are going to marry, Lynmouth?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a serious responsibility, my boy. It’s the most serious step that a man can take. Not that I wish to advise you. I haven’t the right. But I can’t help wondering, Lynmouth, if you’ve made a proper choice–not simply some pretty face that you’ve run across here or there, not long enough to know her, but just enough to permit romance to grow. Now, you see, I’ve said a great deal more than I should. But every one takes a personal interest in you since the Ridley Dam affair.”

“I understand,” said the boy, “and I thank you for it. Of course, a man can’t tell, but I think that you’d approve of the girl that I’m to marry.”

“Would I? Would I?” said the banker dubiously. “Well, I hope so. If I ever see her–”

“Oh, you’ve seen her already, Mr. Oliver.”

“Have I? Well, that explains your opening of your account here. You expect to settle down near here?”

“This is where she lives. I thought she’d be happier here.”

“Perhaps, perhaps! A neighbor of mine, then?”

“Yes. She’s in the town of Crooked Horn.”

“Hm-m-m!” said the other broodingly. “I have it. It’s the young McPherson girl. That wild, pretty young thing. It’s a good, gay, romantic story, my lad–of how you took her to the dance. Well, I hope that she’ll make you a good wife.”

“She’ll make a good wife, no doubt, but not for me.”

“No? Then who–But I haven’t a right to ask.”

“Yes,” said the robber, “you have a better right than any one. You really ought to know, as a matter of fact.”

“What is my right, Lynmouth?”

“Well, you’re her father, sir.”

This lifted the banker from his chair. He did not move suddenly, but little by little the tidings raised him and stirred the hair upon his head. Then he let go with both hands, dropped back into the chair with a jarring impact.

“Kate!” said he, the name jolted out of him.

“Yes, sir,” said Lynmouth.

He maintained the same attitude, but it was obvious that he was under a strain.

William Oliver looked at the three doors through which armed men might pour into the room, and wished, almost, that he could give the signal which would bring them in, shooting as they came. Then he stared back at the boy.

“You’ve not even seen Kate!” he said. “At least, not to my knowledge.”

“Yes, I saw her.”

“How many times?”

He listened in eager dread and pain. To think that his fair- faced daughter, Katherine, should have deceived him even with silence in such an affair as this!

Uneasy must he be who has a daughter!

“I saw her only once,” said the robber.

“Good heavens!” breathed the astonished banker. “And she intends to marry you after one meeting?”

“So she says, sir.”

“One meeting?”

“It was on the way home from that dance to which I took Alice McPherson.”

The banker groaned. “This is a grim thing to me, young man,” said he.

“We’ve been exchanging letters for a good long while,” said the boy.

“And the girl could do that by subterfuge, without ever speaking a word to us?”

He spoke more in anger than in pain. There were two other younger daughters growing up after Katherine. He could only pray to Heaven that they would not follow in her footsteps. But she had been his favorite, his nearest and dearest of them all!

“Well,” said the robber, “of course it seems bad. Perhaps in a way it was bad. But you can’t expect me to condemn her for it? Promises aren’t much good. All I can say is that if she can live down the disgrace of marrying an ex-outlaw, I’ll hope to take good care of her.”

Mr. Oliver did not answer. He sat with a blotched and livid face.

“Good-by, then,” said Lynmouth.

“Good-by,” whispered William Oliver.

He could not stir in his chair. He could only look straight before him, seeing the ruin and wreckage of his daughter’s life. The door closed. The robber was gone, and poor William Oliver remained exactly where he had been sitting.

He began to feel very faint, so he opened the window and leaned out of it.

The two guards, below, looked up to him at once, and one of them muttered faintly:

“Is everything all right, chief?”

He looked down at them in profoundest gloom.

“Yes,” said he. “Everything’s all right.”

He left the window and began to pace the room.

Everything was all right. The vault of the bank had not been touched. Not a hair of any one’s head had been injured, but Mr. Oliver would rather have seen the whole surroundings strewn with wreckage than to have heard his last tidings.

4. DRY POWDER

OUTSIDE the bank, Larry Lynmouth found the gambler, Jay Cress, waiting for him.

“Hello, Larry,” said he, coming up with extended hand. “I’m glad to see you.”

“Yeah. You’re fifteen hundred dollars’ worth glad to see me, I suppose,” said the robber.

“What’s gone is gone. I’m not a short-sport, old-timer. How’s things?”

He looked not a day older than when Lynmouth had last seen him. His lean, weather-dried face was not one to show the passage of time, and the same smile was making a cleft in either cheek and wrinkling his eyes.

“Things are fair,” said Lynmouth, gathering his reins to mount.

Fortune turned her lovely head and nipped affectionately at his shoulder.

“Some day, when you’re feeling like a game, I’ll take you on, Lynmouth.”

Larry Lynmouth turned away from his horse.

“You’ll never rest till you have a shot at that fifteen hundred again,” said he. “Well, I’ll give you one chance, man. No cards. We’ll spin a coin.”

“Why, anything you please, Larry. Here you are. Call it!”

Into the hand of the other slipped a coin. It winked upward.

“Heads,” said Lynmouth.

The coin spatted upon the flat palm of the gambler. Tails!

“I’ll write you a check for it,” said Lynmouth, undisturbed, “and take you into the bank while you cash it.”

“Ah,” said the gambler. “A moneyed man, these days, Larry?”

“Enough to pay you fifteen hundred.”

“Come, come! I’m flush myself. I don’t want your money, Larry. I’ll toss you again, double or nothing.”

Lynmouth laughed.

“Not a chance,” said he. “I’m through with that business, old- timer. No more gambling.”

“Come on, Larry. Three thousand on the turn of the coin. There’s no chance for crookedness, there. You spin it and I’ll call. It’s like old days, seeing you!”

“Well, a last time.”

The coin nicked upward, dissolved in sunshine, spatted on the flat hand of Lynmouth. He had lost again, and this time he frowned.

Six thousand out of twenty-eight thousand made a very appreciable difference. He had felt that for about thirty thousand dollars he could get himself fairly well started. But this was very difficult. Different, at least.

He heard the gambler saying:

“You don’t like that, Larry? I tell you again, I don’t want your money. I’m flush as can be. I ran into a sucker in El Paso, and he won’t forget the day.” He laughed, adding, “Double or nothing, again!”

“By George,” muttered Lynmouth, “is it possible that I’m such a fool? But I can’t do it. At this rate, of course, you’re sure to lose what you’ve fairly won.”

“Come on, Larry. It’s nothing to me. I want you to win it back. So here we go.”

He spun the coin upward, and, in spite of himself, Lynmouth could not help calling:

“Heads!”

He had lost again!

Stunned, the street quaking before him, he stared at the face of the coin. Twelve thousand gone–nearly half of his little fortune. What good was the rest for the establishment of a home worthy of Kate Oliver, accustomed as she was to the best?

“Well, Larry, I’ll give you a last shot at it, if you want; but you’re getting into deep money, and the luck seems against you.”

“I’ll take the chance!” said Lynmouth harshly. “Here she is!”

He tossed.

He had lost again. There, in the space of a single minute, had gone flickering twenty-four thousand dollars. There remained to him only the chicken feed of his stake on which he was to have married and begun the new life.

Two thoughts flashed through his mind.

The first sent his eyes wavering across the street toward the face of the First National. The second made his glance narrow, like the gleam of metal, upon Jay Cress.

The latter appeared not to notice that murderous regard. He was saying gently:

“Well, that’s hard luck, old fellow. Another whirl, if you like–”

“Oh, dang you!” said the robber with his first solemnity.

He jerked out the new check book and scribbled off the largest check he ever had written on an account.

“There’s your twenty-four thousand, Jay. Go cash it! I’ll go with you. Then–keep out of my sight!”

The latter waved the check in the air to dry the ink, and looked thoughtfully on his companion.

“It’s more than any man wants to lose,” he said. “Perticularly, it’s more than you care to lose today. I’ll tell you what, Lynmouth–we ought to have a drink together and think this over!”

“It’s done and ended, so where’s the good of thinking?”

“Aye, but I have a thought, Larry. Will you have a drink with me?”

“No,” said Lynmouth through his teeth. Then he realized that he was losing badly, and shame overcame him.

“I’ll have one with you. I’m acting like a whipped puppy!”

“Not a bit! Not a bit!”

Jay Cress spread out his hands.