Chapter VIII

“Alice’s Right Foot, Esq.,
Hearthrug,
Near the Fender,
(With Alice’s love).”

* * * * *

“O, there be many systems
But only one that wins--
When leading from your strongest suit,
Just kick your partner’s shins.”
--_Hoyle._

Jeff pulled the paper over and began to scribble madly; pausing from time to time to glance around for inspiration: at the Judge, at Mac, at the papers, the books, the typewriter. “I’ll slip in a note for the kids,” said Jeff. His lips moved, his eyes kindled in his eager absorption; his face took on a softer and tenderer look. The Judge, watching him, beamed with almost paternal indulgence.

On the whole Jeff wrote with amazing swiftness for a man who professed to be unaccustomed to lying. For this communication, apparently so spontaneous, dashed off by a man hardly yet clear of the shadow of death, was learned by rote, no syllable unpremeditated, the very blots of it designed.

This is what he handed the Judge at last:

SAN MIGUEL, Chihuahua, March 24.
_My dear Wife_:

Since I last wrote you I have been on a long trip into the
Yaqui country as guide, interpreter and friend to a timid
tenderfoot--and all-round sharp from the Smithsonian. His main lay is
Cliff-Dweller-ology, but he does other stunts--rocks and bugs and
Indian languages, and early Spanish relics.

I get big pay. I enclose you $100----

“A hundred dollars! Why, this is blackmail!” remonstrated the Judge, grinning nevertheless.

“But,” said Jeff, “I’ve got to send it. She knows I wouldn’t stay away except for good big pay, and she knows I’ll send the big pay to her. I didn’t think you were a piker. Why, I had thirty dollars in my pocket. You won’t be out but seventy. And if you don’t send it she’ll know the letter is a fake. Besides, she needs the money.”

“I surrender! I’ll send it,” said the Judge, and resumed his reading:

----and will send you more when I get back from next trip. Going way
down in the Sierra Madre this time. Don’t know when we will hit
civilization again, so you needn’t write till you hear from me.

The Cliff-Dweller-ologist had the El Paso papers sent on here to him
and I am reading them all through while he writes letters and reports
and things. I am reading some of his books, too.

Mary, I always hated it because I didn’t have a better education.
I used to wonder if you wasn’t sometimes ashamed of me when we was
first married. But I’ve learned a heap from you and I’ve picked up
considerable, reading, these last few years--and I begin to see
that there are compensations in all things. I see a good deal in
things I read now that I would have missed if I’d just skimmed over
the surface when I was younger. For instance, I’ve just made the
acquaintance of Julius Cæsar--introduced by my chief.

Say, that’s a great book! And I just know I’m getting more out of
it than if I’d been familiar with it ever since I was a boy, with
stone-bruises on my hoofs. I’ve read it over two or three times now,
and find things every time that I didn’t quite get before.

It ought to be called Yond Caius Cassius, though. Shakspere makes
Julius out to be a superstitious old wretch. But Julius had some
pretty good hunches at that.

Of course Mark Antony’s wonderful speech at the funeral was fine
business. Gee! how he skinned the “Honorable men!” Some of the things
he said after that will stand reading, too.

But Yond Cassius, he was the man for my money. He was a regular
go-getter. If Brutus had only hearkened to Cassius once in a while
they’d have made a different play of it. I didn’t like Brutus near
so well. He was a four-flusher. Said he wouldn’t kill himself and
sure enough he did. He was set up and heady and touchy. I shouldn’t
wonder if he was better than Cassius, just morally. I guess maybe
that’s why Cassius knuckled down to him and humored him so. But
intellectually, and as a man of action, he wasn’t ace-high to Cassius.

Still there’s no denying that Brutus had a fine line of talk. There
was his farewell to Cassius--you remember that--and his parting with
his other friends.

I’ve been reading Carlyle’s “French Revolution” too. It’s a little
too deep for me, so I take it in small doses. It looks to me like a
great writer could take a page of it and build a book on it.

Well, that’s all I know. Oh, yes! I tried to learn typewriting when I
was in El Paso--I musn’t forget that. I made up a sentence with all
the letters in it--he kept vexing me by frantic journeys hidden with
quiet zeal--I got so I could rattle that off pretty well, but when I
tried new stuff I got balled up.

Will write you when I can. George will know what to do with the work.
Have the boys help him.
Your loving husband,
JEFF.

_Dear Kids_:

I wish you could see some of the places I saw in the mountains.
We took the train to Casas Grandes and went with a pack outfit to
Durasno and Tarachi, just over the line into Sonora. That’s one fine
country. Had a good time going and coming, but when we got there and
my chief was snooping around in those musty old underground cave
houses I was bored a-plenty. One day I remember I lay in camp with
nothing to do and read every line of an old El Paso paper, ads and
all.

Leo, you’re getting to be a big boy now. I want you to get into
something better than punching cows. When you get time you ought to
go down to your Uncle Sim’s and make a start on learning to use a
typewriter. I’ve been trying it myself, but it’s hard for an old dog
to learn new tricks.

You and Wesley must both help your mother, and help George. Do what
George tells you--he knows more about things than you do. Be good
kids. I’ll be home just as soon as I can.

DAD.

“There,” said Jeff, “if there’s anything you want to blue-pencil I’ll write it over. Anything you want to say suits me so long as it goes.”

“Why, this seems all right,” said the Judge, after reading it. “I have an envelope in my billbook. Address it, but don’t seal it. You might attempt to put in some inclosure by sleight-of-hand. If you try any such trick I shall consider myself absolved from any promise. If you don’t, I’ll mail it. I always prefer not to lie when I have nothing to gain by lying. Bless my soul, how you have blotted it!”

“Yes. I’m getting nervous,” said Jeff.

The envelope bore the address:

MRS. JEFF BRANSFORD,
Rainbow South,
Escondido, N. M.

c/o WILLIAM BEEBE.

“Of course you will do as you like,” remonstrated Patterson, later. “But I shouldn’t send that letter, and I should, without any further delay, erase Mr. Bransford’s name from the list of living men.”

“Tush!” said the Judge. “The letter is harmless. The man is a splendid fighter, and has some practical notion of psychology, but the poor fellow has no imagination. In his eagerness, he made his letter up on the spur of the moment. There is scarcely a line in it but was suggested by his surroundings. His haste and affection made him transparent; I followed the workings of his mind and, except for personalities, anticipated practically all of it.

“As for killing him, I shall do nothing of the kind. I made a bargain with him in the very article of death and I shall keep to it. He cannot escape; it is not possible. Besides, I like the man. Hang it, Patterson, he is what I would wish my son to be, if I had one. I’ll not kill him and I’ll send his letter.”

He did send it. It reached Billy Beebe some days later, to his no small mystification--Jeff Bransford was unmarried. Yet the address was indubitably in Jeff’s handwriting. Taking Leo Ballinger into consultation, he carried it unopened to John Wesley Pringle; taking also a letter for that person, bearing an El Paso postmark many days earlier than the one for the mysterious Mrs. Bransford. Both had lain long in the Escondido office before any one passed going to Rainbow, so the two letters reached there together.

Pringle’s letter was brief:

EL PASO, Texas, March 20.
MR. JOHN WESLEY PRINGLE,
Rainbow, N. M.

_Dear Sir_:

Your friend, Mr. Jeff Bransford, came here some time since on some
business with Mr. Simon Hibler--whose clerk I am. Mr. Hibler was on
a trip to San Simon, Arizona, and I did not know exactly when he
would return. Mr. Bransford decided to wait for him. We became great
friends and he rather made his headquarters with me. He told me a
great deal about you.

On the night of March 16th, Mr. Bransford was with me until almost
midnight, when he started for his rooms. So far as I can learn he
has not been seen or heard of since; his effects are still at his
lodgings. He did not take the street car home. I inquired carefully
of all the men.

It is now the fourth day since his disappearance and I am much
distressed. I have lodged information with the police--but, between
you and me, I don’t feel any enthusiasm about the police.

If you have any knowledge of his whereabouts I wish you would be so
kind as to drop me a line. If you know nothing, I hope that you and
the other friends he spoke of so often would come down, and I will
put myself at your orders. I am uneasy. As you doubtless know, this
is one awful tough town.

Trusting to hear good news at an early date, I remain,

Yours truly,
GEO. T. AUGHINBAUGH.

112 Temple Street.

On reading this John Wesley took it upon himself to open the letter for the non-existent Mrs. Bransford. From that cryptic document they gathered three things only. First, Jeff was under duress; his letter was written to pass inspection by hostile eyes. Second, Leo Ballinger was to visit Uncle Sim and to learn typewriting. Third, George would tell them what to do. There was no George at Rainbow; Leo’s only uncle, Simon Hibler, lived in El Paso, his clerk’s name was George. The inference was plain.

The next day the three friends presented themselves at 112 Temple Street.