"Of whom?"
"That old billy-goat, Sikoria, for one."
"You've shipped him?"
"We have."
"I saw the beginning of that. Where have you sent him?"
"That," smiled the marshal, "is a job for _your_ secret-service department!"
"And who else?"
"John Edstrom has gone down to bury his wife. It's not the first time that dough-faced old preacher has made trouble for us, but it'll be the last. You'll find him in Pedro--probably in the poor-house."
"No," responded Hal, quickly--and there came just a touch of elation in his voice--"he won't have to go to the poor-house at once. You see, I've just sent twenty-five dollars to him."
The camp-marshal frowned. "Really!" Then, after a pause, "You _did_ have that money on you! I thought that lousy Greek had got away with it!"
"No. Your knave was honest. But so was I. I knew Edstrom had been getting short weight for years, so he was the one person with any right to the money."
This story was untrue, of course; the money was still buried in Edstrom's cabin. But Hal meant for the old miner to have it in the end, and meantime he wanted to throw Cotton off the track.
"A clever trick, young man!" said the marshal. "But you'll repent it before you're through. It only makes me more determined to put you where you can't do us any harm."
"You mean in the pen? You understand, of course, it will mean a jury trial. You can get a jury to do what you want?"
"They tell me you've been taking an interest in politics in Pedro County. Haven't you looked into our jury-system?"
"No, I haven't got that far."
The marshal began blowing rings of smoke again.
"Well, there are some three hundred men on our jury-list, and we know them all. You'll find yourself facing a box with Jake Predovich as foreman, three company-clerks, two of Alf Raymond's saloon-keepers, a ranchman with a mortgage held by the company-bank, and five Mexicans who have no idea what it's all about, but would stick a knife into your back for a drink of whiskey. The District Attorney is a politician who favours the miners in his speeches, and favours us in his acts; while Judge Denton, of the district court, is the law partner of Vagleman, our chief-counsel. Do you get all that?"
"Yes," said Hal. "I've heard of the 'Empire of Raymond'; I'm interested to see the machinery. You're quite open about it!"
"Well," replied the marshal, "I want you to know what you're up against.
We didn't start this fight, and we're perfectly willing to end it without trouble. All we ask is that you make amends for the mischief you've done us."
"By 'making amends,' you mean I'm to disgrace myself--to tell the men I'm a traitor?"
"Precisely," said the marshal.
"I think I'll have a seat while I consider the matter," said Hal; and he took a chair, and stretched out his legs, and made himself elaborately comfortable. "That bench upstairs is frightfully hard," said he, and smiled mockingly upon the camp-marshal.
SECTION 20.
When this conversation was continued, it was upon a new and unexpected line. "Cotton," remarked the prisoner, "I perceive that you are a man of education. It occurs to me that once upon a time you must have been what the world calls a gentleman."
The blood started into the camp-marshal's face. "You go to hell!" said he.
"I did not intend to ask questions," continued Hal. "I can well understand that you mightn't care to answer them. My point is that, being an ex-gentleman, you may appreciate certain aspects of this case which would be beyond the understanding of a nigger-driver like Stone, or an efficiency expert like Cartwright. One gentleman can recognise another, even in a miner's costume. Isn't that so?"
Hal paused for an answer, and the marshal gave him a wary look. "I suppose so," he said.
"Well, to begin with, one gentleman does not smoke without inviting another to join him."
The man gave another look. Hal thought he was going to consign him to hades once more; but instead he took a cigar from his vest-pocket and held it out.
"No, thank you," said Hal, quietly. "I do not smoke. But I like to be invited."
There was a pause, while the two men measured each other.
"Now, Cotton," began the prisoner, "you pictured the scene at my trial.
Let me carry on the story for you. You have your case all framed up, your hand-picked jury in the box, and your hand-picked judge on the bench, your hand-picked prosecuting-attorney putting through the job; you are ready to send your victim to prison, for an example to the rest of your employes. But suppose that, at the climax of the proceedings, you should make the discovery that your victim is a person who cannot be sent to prison?"
"Cannot be sent to prison?" repeated the other. His tone was thoughtful.
"You'll have to explain."
"Surely not to a man of your intelligence! Don't you know, Cotton, there are people who cannot be sent to prison?"
The camp-marshal smoked his cigar for a bit. "There are some in this county," said he. "But I thought I knew them all."
"Well," said Hal, "has it never occurred to you that there might be some in this _state_?"
There followed a long silence. The two men were gazing into each other's eyes; and the more they gazed, the more plainly Hal read uncertainty in the face of the marshal.
"Think how embarrassing it would be!" he continued. "You have your drama all staged--as you did the night before last--only on a larger stage, before a more important audience; and at the _denouement_ you find that, instead of vindicating yourself before the workers in North Valley, you have convicted yourself before the public of the state. You have shown the whole community that you are law-breakers; worse than that--you have shown that you are jack-asses!"
This time the camp-marshal gazed so long that his cigar went out. And meantime Hal was lounging in his chair, smiling at him strangely. It was as if a transformation was taking place before the marshal's eyes; the miner's "jumpers" fell away from Hal's figure, and there was a suit of evening-clothes in their place!
"Who the devil are you?" cried the man.
"Well now!" laughed Hal. "You boast of the efficiency of your secret service department! Put them at work upon this problem. A young man, age twenty-one, height five feet ten inches, weight one hundred and fifty-two pounds, eyes brown, hair chestnut and rather wavy, manner genial, a favourite with the ladies--at least that's what the society notes say--missing since early in June, supposed to be hunting mountain-goats in Mexico. As you know, Cotton, there's only one city in the state that has any 'society,' and in that city there are only twenty-five or thirty families that count. For a secret service department like that of the 'G. F. C.', that is really too easy."
Again there was a silence, until Hal broke it. "Your distress is a tribute to your insight. The company is lucky in the fact that one of its camp-marshals happens to be an ex-gentleman."
Again the other flushed. "Well, by God!" he said, half to himself; and then, making a last effort to hold his bluff--"You're kidding me!"
"'Kidding,' as you call it, is one of the favourite occupations of society, Cotton. A good part of our intercourse consists of it--at least among the younger set."
Suddenly the marshal rose. "Say," he demanded, "would you mind going back upstairs for a few minutes?"
Hal could not restrain his laughter at this. "I should mind it very much," he said. "I have been on a bread and water diet for thirty-six hours, and I should like very much to get out and have a breath of fresh air."