Part 109 (2/2)

”I've already written Baker. But I didn't want you to think I was starting up the bloodhounds against you without some blame good reason.”

”I'd know that anyway, Bobby,” said Welton kindly. He stared moodily at the stovepipe. ”This is getting too thick for an old-timer,” he broke out at last. ”I'm just a plain, old-fas.h.i.+oned lumberman, and all I know is to cut lumber. I pa.s.s this mess up. I wired your father he'd better come along out.”

”Is he coming?” asked Bob eagerly.

”I just got a message over the 'phone from the telegraph office. He'll be in White Oaks as fast as he can get there. Didn't I tell you?”

”Wire him aboard train to go through to Fremont, and that we'll meet him there,” said Bob instantly. ”It's getting about time to beard the lion in his den.”

x.x.xVII

The coroner's inquest detained Bob over until the week following. In it Amy's testimony as to the gun-man's appearance and evident intention was quite sufficient to excuse Ware's shooting; and the fact that Oldham, as he was still known, instead of Saleratus Bill, received the bullet was evidently sheer unavoidable accident. Bob's testimony added little save corroboration. As soon as he could get away, he took the road to Fremont.

Orde was awaiting his son at the station. Bob saw the straight, heavy figure, the tanned face with the snow-white moustache, before the train had come to a stop. Full of eagerness, he waved his hat over the head of the outraged porter barricaded on the lower steps by his customary acc.u.mulation of suit cases.

”Hullo, dad! Hullo, there!” he shouted again and again, quite oblivious to the amus.e.m.e.nt of the other pa.s.sengers over this tall and bronzed young man's enthusiasm.

Orde caught sight of his son at last; his face lit up, and he, too, swung his hat. A moment later they had clasped hands.

After the first greetings, Bob gave his suit case in charge to the hotel bus-man.

”We'll take a little walk up the street and talk things over,” he suggested.

They sauntered slowly up the hill and down the side streets beneath the pepper and acacia trees of Fremont's beautiful thoroughfares. So absorbed did they become that they did not realize in the slightest where they were going, so that at last they had topped the ridge and, from the stretch of the Sunrise Drive, they looked over into the canon.

”So you've been getting into trouble, have you?” chaffed Orde, as they left the station.

”I don't know about that,” Bob rejoined. ”I do know that there are quite a number of people in trouble.”

Orde laughed.

”Tell me about this Welton difficulty,” said he. ”Frank Taylor has our own matters well in hand. The opposition won't gain much by digging up that old charge against the integrity of our land t.i.tles. We'll count that much wiped off the slate.”

”I'm glad to hear it,” said Bob heartily. ”Well, the trouble with Mr.

Welton is that the previous administration held him up--” He detailed the aspects of the threatened bribery case; while Orde listened without comment. ”So,” he concluded, ”it looked at first as if they rather had him, if I testified. It had me guessing. I hated the thought of getting a man like Mr. Welton in trouble of that sort over a case in which he was no way interested.”

”What did you decide?” asked Orde curiously.

”I decided to testify.”

”That's right.”

”I suppose so. I felt a little better about it, because they had me in the same boat. That let me out in my own feelings, naturally.”

”How?” asked Orde swiftly.

”There had been trouble up there between Plant--you remember I wrote you of the cattle difficulties?”

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