CHAPTER VII
TRACKING THE THIEF
Gerald blushed with indignation at the unexpected accusation.
“What do you mean, Mr. Wentworth?” he demanded angrily.
“I mean just what I say. During the night my wallet, which was full of bank bills, has been stolen. Of course your father couldn’t have taken it. There was no one else in the room except yourself.”
“You are making a poor return for our hospitality,” said Gerald coldly. “In what pocket did you keep your wallet?”
“In the inside pocket of my coat.”
“Look about on the floor. It may have slipped out.”
Bradley Wentworth deigned to accept this suggestion. Both he and Gerald looked about on the floor, but could discover no trace of the lost article.
“Just as I expected,” observed Wentworth in a significant tone.
Gerald colored and felt mystified.
“I don’t understand it,” he said slowly.
“Probably the wallet walked off without hands,” sneered Wentworth.
“It must have been taken,” said Gerald quietly, “but who could have done it?”
“Yes, who could have done it?” repeated Wentworth with another sneer.
“I will trouble you to speak in a different tone,” said Gerald with quiet dignity. “My father and I are poor enough, but no one ever charged us with dishonesty.”
Mr. Lane, awakening from sleep, heard the last words.
“What is the matter? What has happened?” he asked dreamily.
“Mr. Wentworth misses his pocketbook, father,” exclaimed Gerald.
“How much money was there in your wallet, Bradley?” asked the sick man.
“Nearly two hundred dollars.”
“That is a great deal of money to lose. You are sure it was in your pocket when you went to bed?”
“Yes, I felt it there.”
“Some one must have got into the cabin during the night.”
“But the door was locked,” said Wentworth.
“True, but there is a window near your bed. There was no fastening, and it could be raised easily. And that reminds me,” he continued with a sudden thought, “I waked up during the night, that is I partially awakened, and thought I saw a figure near your bed in a stooping position. It must have been the thief going through your pockets.”
“Why didn’t you speak, father?”
“Because I was more asleep than awake, and my mind was too torpid to reason upon what I saw.”
“Did the figure remind you of anyone, father? What was it like?”
“A man of medium height, stout and broad-shouldered.”
Bradley Wentworth started, and a sudden conviction flashed upon him. The description tallied exactly with Jake Amsden, the man with whom he had had a conference the day before.
“Is there any such person who lives near by?” he asked.
“Yes, a worthless, dissipated fellow named Jake Amsden.”
“I think I caught sight of him yesterday during my walk. Is his hair red?”
“Yes. Did you speak to him?”
“I spoke to him,” said Wentworth evasively, for he did not care to mention the subject of their conversation.
“Did he know where you were staying?”
“I believe I mentioned it.”
“And from your appearance doubtless he concluded that you had money.”
“Possibly. Has he ever stolen anything from you?”
“I am too poor to attract burglars. Besides, theft in this neighborhood is a serious offense. Only last year a man living five miles away was lynched for stealing a horse.”
“This is an awkward loss for me,” said Wentworth. “If I were at home I could step into a bank and get all the money I wanted. Here it is different.”
“Have you no money left? Did the wallet contain all you had?”
“I have some besides in an inside pocket, but not as much as I may have occasion to use. Is there any hope of recovering the wallet from this man – that is, provided he has taken it?”
“After breakfast I will go with you,” said Gerald, “and see if we can find Jake Amsden. If we do we will make him give up the money.”
“But will it be safe? He looks like a rough character.”
“So he is; but the two of us ought to be more than a match for him.”
“I have no arms.”
“I will lend you my father’s pistol, and I have one of my own.”
Gerald spoke so calmly, and seemed so cool and courageous that Wentworth gave him a look of admiration.
“That boy has more in him than I thought. He is no milk-and-water youth as his father probably was.
“Very well,” he said aloud. “I will accept your offer – that is, after breakfast. I am afraid I shouldn’t muster up courage enough to meet this rough fellow on an empty stomach. I don’t feel like giving up such a sum of money without a struggle to recover it. Do you know Amsden?”
“Yes; he has been in this vicinity almost as long as we have.”
“Are you on friendly terms?”
“We are not unfriendly, but he is not a man that I cared to be intimate with.”
“Will he be likely to leave the neighborhood with his booty?” asked Wentworth anxiously.
“No; he is not a coward, and will stay. Besides, he probably thinks that he has covered his tracks, and will not be suspected.”
Breakfast was prepared and eaten. As they rose from the table Gerald said: “Now, Mr. Wentworth, I am at your service.”
They took their way partly through woods till they reached the poor cabin occupied by Jake Amsden. The door was open and they looked in. But there was no sign of the occupant.
“He is gone!” said Wentworth, in accents that betrayed his disappointment.
“I didn’t much expect he would be here,” said Gerald.
“Have you any idea where he is?”
“Yes; he is very fond of whisky, and there is a place at the foot of the hill where drink can be obtained. It is kept by a negro, a man of bad reputation.”
“Then let us go there. There is no time to be lost,” said Wentworth, anxiously.
As they walked along Wentworth broached the old subject of selling the cabin and the land attached.
“I think you make a mistake, Gerald,” he said, “in not selling me the cabin. Two hundred dollars would be very useful to you.”
“The place is worth more.”
“I offered you two hundred and fifty, and I stand by that offer.”
“I may desire to sell it some time, but not at present.”
“You don’t mean to remain here after your father dies?”
“Please don’t refer to that, Mr. Wentworth,” said Gerald with emotion. “I don’t want to think of it.”
“But you know he can’t recover.”
“I know it, but I don’t like to think of it.”
“This is only weakness. You ought to think of it, and be forming your plans.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Wentworth,” said Gerald with sad dignity, “but I cannot and will not speak of my father’s death at present. When God takes him from me it will be time to consider what I shall do.”
“Suit yourself,” said Bradley Wentworth stiffly, “but you must not forget that I am your father’s friend, and – ”
“Are you my father’s friend?” asked Gerald with a searching look.
“Of course I am,” answered Wentworth, coloring. “Hasn’t he told you we were young men together?”
“Yes, he has told me that.”
“Then you understand it. I am his friend and yours.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Gerald gravely, “but there,” he added, pointing to a low, one-story frame building, “is the place where Jake Amsden probably came to buy liquor.”
Over the entrance was a large board on which was painted in rude characters:
P. Johnson,
Saloon
CHAPTER VIII
FOILING A THIEF
Mr. Peter Johnson, the proprietor of the saloon, hearing voices, came to the door. He was a dirty looking negro of medium size, dressed in a shoddy suit, common enough in appearance, but with a look of cunning in his small round eyes.
“Good mornin’, gemmen,” he said rubbing his hands and rolling his eyes. “What can I do for you dis mornin’?”
“Has Jake Amsden been around here?” asked Gerald abruptly.
“No, sir,” answered Peter.
In spite of his answer there was a look in his eyes that belied his statement.
“You have seen nothing of him?” continued Gerald, sharply.
“No, sir. What for should Jake Amsden come here for, Mr. Gerald?”
“He might feel thirsty,” suggested Wentworth, “just as I am. Have you got some good whisky?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Peter briskly.
“Well, go in and get a couple of glasses,” said Wentworth.
“None for me,” commenced Gerald, but Wentworth gave him a quick look that silenced him. He saw that his companion had an object in view.
Wentworth made a motion to go in, but the negro interfered hastily. “Stay where you are, gemmen, I’ll bring out de whisky.”
“We can go in as well as not, and save you trouble,” said Wentworth, and despite Peter’s opposition the two followed him in.
They looked about scrutinizingly, but saw nothing to repay their search.
There was a counter, such as is usually found in saloons, and Mr. Johnson going behind this brought out glasses and a bottle of whisky.
“Help yourselves, gemmen!” he said, but there was an uneasy look on his face.
Wentworth poured out a small quantity of whisky and drank it down. He poured out a less quantity for Gerald, but the boy merely touched his lips to the glass.
“So you say Jake Amsden has not been here?” repeated Wentworth in a loud voice.
“No, stranger, no, on my word he hasn’t,” answered Peter earnestly. But he was immediately put to confusion by a voice from behind the bar; a voice interrupted by hiccoughs: “Who’s callin’ me? Is it you, Pete?”
“Come out here, Jake,” said Wentworth, showing no surprise. “Come out here, and have a drink with your friends.”
The invitation was accepted. Jake, who was lying behind the counter half stupefied, got up with some difficulty, and presented himself to the company a by no means attractive figure. His clothes were even more soiled than usual by contact with a floor that was seldom swept.
Wentworth poured out a glass of whisky and handed it to the inebriate, who gulped it down.
“Now you drink with me!” stuttered Jake, who was too befuddled to recognize the man who had treated him.
“All right, Jake, old boy!” said Wentworth with assumed hilarity.
He poured out for himself a teaspoonful of whisky, but did not replenish Gerald’s glass, as Amsden was not likely to notice the omission.
“Now pay for it, Jake,” prompted Wentworth.
“Never mind!” said Peter hastily, “’nother time will do!”
“Jake has money. He doesn’t need credit,” said Wentworth.
“Yes, I’ve got money,” stammered Amsden, and pulled out the wallet he had stolen from Wentworth.
“Give it to me, I’ll pay,” said Wentworth, and Jake yielded, not knowing the full meaning of what was going on.
“I take you to witness, Gerald,” said Wentworth, “this is my pocketbook, which this man Amsden stole from me last night. I’ll keep it.”
“Stop there, gemmen!” said Pete Johnson. “Dat don’t go down. Dat wallet belongs to Jake, I’ve seen him have it a dozen times. I won’t ’low no stealin’ in my saloon.”
“Be careful, Mr. Johnson,” said Wentworth sternly. “There are papers in this wallet that prove my ownership. You evidently intended to relieve Jake of the wallet when he was sleeping off the effects of the whisky. If you make a fuss I’ll have you arrested as a confederate of Jake Amsden in the robbing.”
“’Fore Hebbin, massa!” said Peter, becoming alarmed, “I didn’t know Jake stole the money.”
“Did you ever know him have so much money before?” demanded Gerald.
“Didn’t know but he might a had some money lef’ him,” said Peter shrewdly.
“Well, you know now. When this gentleman lay asleep in our cabin last night Jake stole in and took his wallet.”
“What’ll I do, gemmen? When Jake wakes up” (he had dropped on the floor, where he was breathing hard with his eyes closed) “he’ll ’cuse me of takin’ his money.”
“Tell him that the man he stole it from came here and got it,” said Gerald.
Gerald and his companion left the saloon, leaving Peter Johnson quite down in the mouth. His little game had been spoiled, for rightly supposing that Jake did not know how much money there was in the wallet, he had intended to abstract at least half the contents and appropriate it to his own use.
“Did he use much of your money, Mr. Wentworth?” asked Gerald.
“I will examine and find out,” answered his companion.
He sat down under the tree and took out the roll of bills.
“Only five dollars are missing,” he said in a tone of satisfaction.
“Have you a son?” asked Gerald. “I think I heard my father say you had one somewhere near my own age.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“My son – Victor – is seventeen. You have one advantage over him.”
“What is that, sir?”
“You are a poor man’s son.”
“Do you consider that an advantage?”
“Money is a temptation,” returned Bradley Wentworth slowly, “especially to a boy. Victor knows that I am rich – that is, moderately rich,” he added cautiously, “and he feels at liberty to spend money, often in ways that don’t do him any good. He buys clothes extravagantly, but that does no harm outside of the expense. I am sorry to say that he has contracted a taste for drink, and has given several champagne suppers to his friends. I suppose you don’t indulge yourself in that way,” Wentworth added, with a faint smile.
“I have heard of champagne, but I never tasted it,” returned Gerald.
“You are as well off without it – nay, better. I noticed you merely sipped the whisky at the place we just left.”
“Yes; I knew your object in ordering it, and did not want to arouse Peter’s suspicions, or I would not even have done that.”
“So I supposed. I approve of your moderation. I do not myself drink whisky, and indeed very little wine. Drink has no temptation for me. I wish I could say as much for Victor. I presume, however, if you were in his place, you would do the same.”
“You are quite mistaken, Mr. Wentworth,” said Gerald indignantly.
“Well, perhaps so, but you can’t tell, for you have never been tried.”
“I have never been tried, but I hate liquor of all kinds, and drunkenness still more. The sight of Jake Amsden just now is enough to sicken any one.”
“True, he makes a beast of himself. I am not afraid Victor will ever sink to his level; but I should be glad if he would abstain from drinking altogether.”
Bradley Wentworth rose from his recumbent position.
“Shall we take a walk?” he said.
“I would do so, but I don’t like to leave my father alone.”
“He looked comfortable when we left the cabin.”
“Yes, but he is subject to sudden attacks.”
“And you have no doctor within a reasonable distance?”
“No; but his attacks are always the same, and I know what to do for him.”
“We will walk to the cabin, and then, if he seems well, you might venture to take a walk.”
“Very well, Mr. Wentworth.”
When they were within a few rods of his home, Gerald, impatient and always solicitous about the invalid, ran forward, leaving Mr. Wentworth to follow more slowly.
The latter was startled when Gerald, pale and agitated, emerged from the cabin and called out: “Oh, come quick, Mr. Wentworth. My father has had a serious hemorrhage, and – ” he choked, unable to finish the sentence.
Wentworth hurried forward and entered the cabin. Mr. Lane lay back in his chair, gasping for breath.
He opened his eyes when he heard Gerald’s voice.
“I – am – glad – you – are – come, Gerald,” he gasped. “I think – the end has come!”
He did not utter another word, but in half an hour breathed his last!
CHAPTER IX
ALONE IN THE WORLD
Two days afterward the simple burial took place. Mr Wentworth remained, influenced by a variety of motives. He felt that with Warren Lane dead all form of a demand upon him for the money he had once faithfully agreed to pay had passed. Gerald might know something about it, but what could a poor and friendless boy do against a rich manufacturer? Still, if the boy had the papers, he might as well secure them for a trifle. So as they sat in front of the cabin after the burial he said suddenly: “What do you propose to do, Gerald?”
“I don’t know,” answered Gerald sadly.
“If you will go home with me, I will give you a place in my factory.”
“I prefer to remain here for a time.”
“But how will you live?”
“I can hunt and fish, and as my wants are few I think I shall get along.”
“As your father and I were young men together, I should like to do something for you.”
“You can do something for me,” said Gerald significantly.
“What is it you refer to?”
“Keep the promise you made to my father fifteen years ago.”
Bradley Wentworth looked uneasy. It was clear that the boy thoroughly understood the compact.
“What do you mean, Gerald?” he asked.
“I mean that my father sacrificed his reputation to save yours. Through him you obtained your inheritance and are to-day a rich man. For this you solemnly agreed to give him twenty thousand dollars when you came into your uncle’s fortune.”
“You are laboring under a delusion, boy!” said Wentworth harshly.
“You know better than that, Mr. Wentworth,” answered Gerald calmly.
“You are certainly very modest in your demands. Twenty thousand dollars, indeed!”
“It was not I who fixed upon that sum, but yourself. As my father’s sacrifice brought you over three hundred thousand dollars, it was a good bargain for you.”
“What have you to show in proof of this extraordinary claim of yours?” demanded Wentworth, waiting eagerly for the answer.
“Your confession over your own signature that you forged the check, a crime attributed to my father, and confessing that he bore the blame to screen you.”
“Where is this paper?” demanded Wentworth, edging, as if unconsciously, nearer the boy.
“It is safe,” answered Gerald, rising and facing his companion.
“Show it to me! I won’t believe in its existence unless you show it to me.”
“This is not the time to show it,” said Gerald.
“I differ with you. This is the precise time to show it if you have it, which I very much doubt.”
“I will show it to you in due time, Mr. Wentworth. This is not the right time, nor the right place.”
“Have you it about you?”
“I shall answer no more questions, Mr. Wentworth.”
Wentworth eyed Gerald, doubting whether he should not seize him then and there and wrest from him the paper if he proved to have it, but there was something in the resolute look of the boy that daunted him, man though he was, and he decided that it would be better to have recourse to a little strategy. For this the boy would be less prepared than for open force.
“Look here, Gerald,” he said, moderating his tone and moving further away, as if all thoughts of violence had left him, “I will have a few plain words with you. If you have any paper compromising me in any way, I will make it worth your while to give it to me. I remember that I was in a little trouble, and being young made a mountain out of a molehill. Still I don’t care to have it come out now, when I am a man of repute, that I ever sowed wild oats like most young men. I will make you the same offer that I did your father. Give me the paper and I will give you a thousand dollars to start you in life. Think what such a sum will be to a boy like you.”
“I don’t think I care much for money, Mr. Wentworth,” responded Gerald. “But my father left me this claim upon you as a sacred trust. I feel that I owe it to his memory to collect it to the uttermost farthing.”
Bradley Wentworth shrugged his shoulders.
“You are about the most foolish boy I ever met,” he said. “You are almost a pauper, yet you refuse a thousand dollars.”
“I shall never be a pauper while I have my health and strength, Mr. Wentworth.”
“You must think me a fool to surrender so large a sum as twenty thousand dollars on the demand of a half-grown boy like yourself!”
“No, Mr. Wentworth. I was only trying to find out whether you were a man of integrity!”
“Do you dare to impugn my integrity?” demanded the manufacturer angrily.
“A man of integrity keeps his engagements,” said Gerald briefly.
Bradley Wentworth regarded Gerald with a fixed and thoughtful glance. He had expected to twine the boy round his finger, but found that he was more resolute than he expected. He exhibited a force of character which his father had never possessed.
Wentworth was not a patient man, and the boy’s perverseness, as he called it, provoked him, and brought out his sterner and more disagreeable qualities.
“Boy,” he said harshly, “I have a piece of advice to give you.”
“What is it, sir?”
“Don’t make me your enemy! I came here intending to be your friend, and you decline my advances.”
“No, sir,” answered Gerald firmly. “I don’t consider that you act a friendly part when you decline to carry out a solemn compact made with my father.”
“It is a delusion of his and yours,” returned Wentworth, “I can only look upon your attitude as that of a blackmailer.”
“No one has more contempt for a blackmailer than I,” said Gerald. “I am old enough to understand the meaning of the term. If a man owed you money, and you presented your claim, would you consider it blackmail?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then I need not defend myself from your charge.”
“You and I take different views on this question, but it is of some importance to you not to offend me.”
“Why?” asked Gerald, looking straight into the eyes of his companion.
“Because I am rich and powerful.”
“And I am weak and poor?”
“Precisely.”
“What use do you propose to make of your power, Mr. Wentworth?”
“To crush you!” hissed the manufacturer.
“Listen, boy, I am capable of being a good friend – ”
“As you were to my father,” suggested Gerald significantly.
“As I was to your father, only he did not appreciate it.”
“I don’t care to have such a friend.”
“But I have something to add. I can be a bitter enemy when I am badly treated.”
“I suppose that is meant as a threat, Mr. Wentworth,” said Gerald calmly.
“You can take it so.”
“Then I have my answer ready. I care neither for your friendship nor your enmity. I shall do what I consider right, and if my own conscience approves I shall seek no other approval.”
“You are very independent for a young boy, especially one in your circumstances,” sneered Wentworth.
“You may be right. I am independent, and I intend to remain so.”
“Wait till you get older, and have been buffeted by the world. You will understand then that you have made a serious mistake in repelling my offer of help.”
“Have you anything more to say to me, Mr. Wentworth?”
“No, unless to add that I generally get even with those who oppose me. Indeed, I have a great mind to chastise you here and now.”
Gerald rose from his seat and confronted the angry man, but without betraying any trace of excitement or fear.
“You are probably more than a match for me physically, Mr. Wentworth,” he said, “but if you undertake anything of that kind you will meet with a determined resistance.”
And as Wentworth looked into the boy’s resolute face he quite understood that he spoke only the truth.
“No,” he said, after a brief pause, “I will bide my time. You may repent of your folly and decide to come to terms with me. If you don’t – ”
He did not finish the sentence, for a man on horseback came galloping up to the cabin. He checked his horse, and said inquiringly, “Is this Mr. Bradley Wentworth?”
“I am he,” answered Wentworth, rising.
“Then here is a telegram for you. It came to Denver, and I have ridden seventy miles to bring it to you.”
Wentworth tore open the message. It contained these words:
“Come home at once. The men are on strike. I can do nothing without your authority.
“Morgan.”
“This is from my foreman. I am summoned home,” said Wentworth, looking up. “How soon can I leave here?”
“At once. I engaged a wagon that will be here in fifteen minutes.”
In fifteen minutes Bradley Wentworth set out on his return. His mind was so much occupied with the serious news from home that he left without a word to Gerald, who stood watching the conveyance till it disappeared behind a bend in the cliff.
“Now I am indeed alone!” he reflected, as his eyes rested sadly on the poor cabin which he and his father had occupied for three years. “I am alone in the world, with no friend, but with one powerful enemy.”