Part 28 (1/2)
”I've just time to make it,” he thought. ”I can't stop to say a word to anybody about this business, or I'll miss this train. Well, I reckon I might just as well not say anything about it, anyway, as long as Tommy isn't here, until I get back--if I ever get back! They'll be only too glad to snake me in down there, if they get the chance. I'll just have to make a quick scoot across the line, and trust to the luck of the Irish army! If Tommy was only here we'd get this thing through, if we had to wade through h.e.l.l and tote home the back doors. But I can't stop to wait for company. I'll try it alone, and I sure reckon I'll be too smart for 'em!”
CHAPTER XXIV
Emerson Mead's trial had been in progress nearly two weeks, but most of the time had been exhausted in impaneling a jury. Almost the entire male population of Las Plumas had filed between the opposing lawyers and, for one reason or another, had been excused. At last a jury had been chosen, not because its members were satisfactory to either side, but because both sides had exhausted their peremptory challenges and neither could find further objection which the judge would allow.
Thomson Tuttle arrived soon after Nick Ellhorn's departure, and was alternately puzzled and indignant over his absence. He felt sure that Nick had gone away on some expedition of importance and probably of danger. He was puzzled to think what it could possibly be, and indignant that Nick had thus risked himself without the aid and protection of his best friend.
”It was plumb ridiculous for him to go off alone like that,” he complained to Judge Harlin. ”He knew I'd be along in a day or two, and here he goes flirtin' the gravel off the road all alone as if I was some didn't-know-it-was-loaded kind of a fool who couldn't handle a gun! He'll sure get into some kind of trouble if I'm not with him!”
Interest in the trial was universal and intense, and during the sessions of the court, especially after the taking of testimony began, the streets of the town were well nigh deserted, while a large part of the population crowded the court room, swarmed in the corridors, and filled the windows. Those who could not get into the court-house gathered in groups on the outside and discussed the news and the rumors, which came in plentiful supply from its doors.
The prosecution had put on several witnesses, employees of the Fillmore Cattle Company, who had sworn to the ill-feeling between Mead and young Whittaker, and one who had been a witness of the quarrel between them, just previous to Whittaker's disappearance, when Mead had threatened the young man's life. Then Colonel Whittaker took the stand. It was rumored that after him would be given the testimony of an eye-witness of the murder, and an even larger crowd than usual sought the court-house that afternoon. Two score of women sat comfortably in a s.p.a.ce fitted with chairs at one end of the judge's desk. But the body of the room was jammed with a standing crowd of men, both Mexicans and Americans. Late comers crowded the corridor, and those who could get them mounted chairs outside the door. Inside the room a row of men swung their heels from each window seat, while outside another row stood on the ledges and looked over their heads.
Colonel Whittaker told the story of how his son had set out from the ranch to come to town and had never been seen alive again. He declared that the young man had no enemies except the prisoner and that there was no possible explanation of his disappearance except that he had been murdered. Then he told of the work of the searching party which he had taken to the White Sands, and of the body which they had found.
He had identified this corpse as the body of his son, and on the sketched outline of a man's back he located the position of the three bullet holes by which the young man had come to his death. The s.h.i.+rt, with the initials worked in the collar, the ring, scarfpin, memorandum book and envelopes that had been taken from the body were placed before him and he identified them all as having belonged to his son.
The crowded court room was still, with the silence of tense expectancy. Every neck was craned and every eye was fixed on these articles as one by one they were held up before him and then pa.s.sed on to the judge's desk.
A slight disturbance at the door, as of people unwillingly moving back, fell upon the strained hush. Some one was forcing his way through the crowd. The witness leaned back in his chair, waiting for another question, and the lawyers consulted together for a moment.
Then the prosecuting attorney asked the witness if he had positively identified the body as that of his missing son, William Whittaker.
”I did, sir,” replied Colonel Whittaker. As the words left his lips his gaze fell past the attorney upon two men who had just struggled out of the crowd and into the free railed s.p.a.ce in front of the judge's desk. His jaw fell, his pale face turned an ashen gray, his eyes opened wide, and, with trembling hands upon the arms of his chair, he unconsciously lifted himself to his feet. The lawyers, the judge, and the jury followed his gaze. Some sprang to their feet and some fell back in their chairs, their mouths open, but dumb with amazement. All over the court room there was a shuffling of feet and a craning of necks, and a buzzing whisper went back from the foremost ranks.
Nick Ellhorn was there, tall and slender and smiling, with a happy, triumphant look overspreading his handsome face. By his side was a young man, dark-skinned, black-haired and black-mustached, who looked ashamed and self-conscious. Ellhorn tucked one hand into his arm and urged him to a quicker pace. Nick's eye sought Emerson Mead and as Mead's glance flashed from the stranger's face to his, Nick's lid dropped in a significant wink. Mead leaned back in his chair, a look of amused triumph on his face, as he watched the scene before him and waited for it to come to its conclusion.
Slowly Colonel Whittaker stepped forward, trembling, with a look upon his face that was almost fear. The crowd was pus.h.i.+ng and pressing toward the center of interest, and everywhere wide eyes looked out from amazed, incredulous faces. Nick Ellhorn and his companion slowly edged their way between the tables and chairs, the young man advancing reluctantly, with downcast face, until they stood in front of Colonel Whittaker. Then he looked up, and exclaimed in a choking voice:
”Father! I am not dead!”
CHAPTER XXV
”It was Amada Garcia put me on,” said Nick Ellhorn to Emerson Mead and Tom Tuttle, as the three sat in Mead's room, whither they went at once to hear Nick's story. ”One morning the first of this week Miss Delarue came runnin' up to me on the street and said Amada was sick at her house and had walked all the way in from Garcia's ranch and had something to tell that she wouldn't say to anybody but Emerson. I went over to see if she would tell me what she wanted, and Emerson can thank her, and the _padre_, for gettin' out of this sc.r.a.pe with the laugh on the other side. She thought she was goin' to die and had unloaded her soul on to the _padre_, and he had ordered her to tell Emerson Mead what she had told him. I reckon the little witch wouldn't have peeped about it to anybody if the _padre_ hadn't made her. She didn't want to say a word to me, and at first she said she wouldn't, but I finally made her understand she couldn't see Emerson, and I swore by all the saints I could think of that I'd tell him and n.o.body else exactly what she said. So then she whispered in my ear that Senor Mead didn't kill Senor Whittaker, and I inched her along until I got out of her that Will Whittaker wasn't dead.
”That was all she meant to tell me, but I was bound to get all she knew. And I got it, but I want to tell you right now, boys, that I had a h.e.l.l of a time gettin' it. Every time I got a new thing out of her she'd make me get down on my knees and kiss the crucifix and swear by a dozen fresh saints that I wouldn't tell anybody but Don Emerson, and that he wouldn't tell anybody else, and that nothin' should happen to Don Will because she had told it.
”She finally admitted that she and Will Whittaker had been secretly married away last spring and had never said a word about it to anybody. By that time I felt pretty sure that it was Mr. Will himself who had made a killin', and I sprung my suspicion on her and threatened her with the _padre_ and swore a lot of things by a whole heap of fresh saints, and she finally told me just what had happened.
”It seems that a cousin of hers--one of their everlastin' _primos_ in the sixty-third degree, I reckon--came up from down along the line somewheres, and she was so glad to see him and he was so glad to see her that he hugged her and stooped over to kiss her--I reckon likely she'd been flirtin' her eyes and her shoulders at him--when bang!
bang! bang! and he dropped dead at her feet and there was _esposo_ Will in the door, mad with jealousy and ready to kill her too. Say, boys!” Nick stopped short, the stream of his narrative interrupted by a certain memory. ”Say, that was what it was!” And he slapped his thigh with delight at having solved a mystery. ”That's the reason she had such fantods when I wanted to kiss her that day last summer! It was just because she happened to remember this other time!”
The others smiled and chuckled and Mead said: ”You know I told you then, Nick, it wasn't because she didn't like your looks!”
”Well, he was ready to kill her, too, but she threw herself on him and begged for her life and swore the man was her cousin and there was no harm, and presently Will's companion came runnin' in and they got the young man cooled off. He and the other man talked together a little while and then they put Will's clothes on the corpse and Will dressed himself in the dead man's and they took the dead body away in the wagon, and Amada washed up all the blood stains and never let a soul know what had happened, because Will told her if she did her father would sure have him arrested and hung. And he made her swear to be a faithful wife to him and promised to send for her as soon as he could.
”So she waited for word from him all summer, and the other day there came a letter, and the same day she found out that her mother meant for her to marry some young Mexican blood at Muletown. Then she made up her mind to go to Will, although he had told her he couldn't send for her for another month or two. That night she started off alone in the dark and walked to Muletown. Somebody gave her a ride across the plain and then she walked to Plumas from the Hermosa pa.s.s.