Part 41 (1/2)

”Very good. So long as we understand each other thus far, perhaps you will permit me to go on. As you know, I came to you in good faith. I wanted to help you in any way that a gentleman could do. Last night you tricked me, and put my life in danger. If you had killed Kennedy everything would have been all right for _you_. And I would have been accused of the killing. If _I_ had been killed no harm would have been done at all. That was your idea. It was a clever little scheme. Pity it didn't work out.”

McGuire's faltering courage was coming back.

”Go on!” he muttered desperately.

”Thanks,” said Peter, ”I will. One shot of yours sc.r.a.ped Kennedy's shoulder. He was bleeding badly, so I took him to the Cabin and fixed him up. He was rather grateful. He ought to have been. I gave him a drink too--several drinks. You said he wouldn't talk, but he did.”

”You _made_ him talk, d----n you,” McGuire broke in hoa.r.s.ely.

”No. He volunteered to talk. I may say, he insisted upon it. You see, I happened to have the gentleman's acquaintance----”

”You----!”

”We met on the steamer coming over when we were escaping from Russia.

His name was Jim Coast then. He was a waiter in the dining saloon. So was I. Funny, isn't it?”

To McGuire it seemed far from that, for at this revelation his jaw dropped and he stared at Peter as though the entire affair were beyond his comprehension.

”You knew him! A waiter, _you_!”

”Yes. Misfortune makes strange bedfellows. It was either that or starvation. I preferred to wait.”

”For--for the love of G.o.d--go on,” growled McGuire. His hands were clutching the chair arm and there was madness in his s.h.i.+fting eyes, so Peter watched him keenly.

”I will. He told me how you and he had worked together out in Colorado, up in the San Luis valley, of the gold prospect near Wagon Wheel Gap, of its failure--how you met again in Pueblo and then went down into the copper country--Bisbee, Arizona.”

Peter had no pity now. He saw McGuire straighten again in his chair, his gaze s.h.i.+fting past Peter from left to right like a trapped animal. His fingers groped along the chair arms, along the table edge, trembling, eager but uncertain. But the sound of Peter's narrative seemed to fascinate--to hypnotize him.

”Go on----!” he whispered hoa.r.s.ely. ”Go on!”

”You got an outfit and went out into the Gila Desert,” continued Peter, painting his picture leisurely, deliberately. ”It was horrible--the heat, the sand, the rocks--but you weren't going to fail this time.

There was going to be something at the end of this terrible pilgrimage to repay you for all that you suffered, you and Hawk Kennedy. There was no water, but what you carried on your pack-mules--no water within a hundred miles, nothing but sand and rocks and the heat. No chance at all for a man, alone without a horse, in that desert. You saw the bones of men and animals bleaching along the trail. That was the death that awaited any man----”

”You lie!”

Peter sprang for the tortured man as McGuire's fingers closed on something in the open drawer of the table, but Peter twisted the weapon quickly out of his hand and threw it in the corner of the room.

”You fool,” he whispered quickly as he pinioned McGuire in his chair, ”do you want to add another murder to what's on your conscience?”

But McGuire had already ceased to resist him. Peter hadn't been too gentle with him. The man had collapsed. A glance at his face showed his condition. So Peter poured out a gla.s.s of whisky and water which he poured between his employer's gaping lips. Then he waited, watching the old man. He seemed really old now to Peter, a hundred at least, for his sagging facial muscles seemed to reveal the lines of every event in his life--an old man, though scarcely sixty, yet broken and helpless. He came around slowly, his heavy gaze slowly seeking Peter's.

”What--what are you going to do?” he managed at last.

”Nothing. I'm no blackmailer.” And then, playing his high card, ”I've heard what Hawk said about Ben Cameron,” said Peter. ”Now tell me the truth.”

At the sound of the name McGuire started and then his eyes closed for a moment.

”You know--everything,” he muttered.

”Yes, _his_ side,” Peter lied. ”What's yours?”

McGuire managed to haul himself upright in his chair, staring up at Peter with bloodshot eyes.