Starlight Riders Boxed-Set 50 Western Classics in One Edition. Ernest Haycox

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      XIV. GRIST STRIKES AGAIN

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      Barron Grist obeyed orders because it was profitable to do so. On his own initiative he never would have committed an overt act of wrongdoing or dared to skim along the slim line dividing legality from illegality. He wasn't robustly crooked enough to face the law on his own account. But with a corporation behind him Grist was another man. He borrowed courage from those who hired him, and he fetched and carried the corporation's dirty tools with the curious yet common philosophy of his type: he wasn't the originator, but only the agent, and therefore not bound by his conscience. After all, business was business, and if the P.R.N. could get away with so many sins of omission and commission what difference did it make? The strong survived, the weak perished, and perhaps it was just as well they did.

      Whoever chose Grist for this job understood the man well. Despite his colourlessness he was persistent in pushing forward the corporation's affairs, dangerous when he had positive directions to follow. Bred to Eastern standards, he never fully realized one fact concerning the West until Gillette woke him to that fact. Out here men didn't play at life as if it were a game of chess: behind every transaction stood an alternative an Easterner seldom dreamed of using—the appeal to weapons. He had been discounting this until he saw his own foreman sag to the floor of the saloon and spit out his last breath. That both sickened and warned him as nothing ever had before. For five days he kept to the Nelson hotel, and had he been left to his own thoughts he might soon have resigned. His book of rules didn't cover such a situation and he wasn't the kind to take long chances on his own responsibility. However, he wasn't long left to himself. There arrived presently the following summary order:

      MAKE HASTE AS PER INSTRUCTIONS. PRAGUE.

      Grist tore the telegram into small squares and paced fretfully down the dusty street to the railroad office. And, still shaken by the recent experience, he dispatched an extraordinarily tart response.

      DO YOU WANT ME TO SHOVEL DAKOTA IN APPLE BARRELS AND FORWARD TO YOUR OFFICE? GRIST.

      "I'm sick of it," he told himself. "Dead sick. I've a notion to quit 'em. I'll pull their chestnuts out of the fire, but I won't set up as a target. Not by a jugful of cider. If they want the south bank they've got to come into the open and give me directions I can read. And directions I can show as evidence."

      But his rebellion was brief, and close on the heels of the above war cry he sent a more explicit explanation.

      ONE PARTY UNWILLING. FINAL. GRIST.

      "Let them do the squirming now. I'll be hanged if I read between any more lines."

      He was mistaken. Back came a telegram in the same enigmatic style, as plain as a summer sky, and as subtle as three legal minds could make it.

      GLAD TO HEAR OF YOUR PROGRESS. BE SURE EVERYTHING IS LEGAL. MUCH CONFUSION AND CONFLICT OF TITLES IN A NEW TERRITORY. BETTER CHECK UP ON YOUR SURVEYS. ADVISE SEE LAND OFFICE REGARDS THAT. SALARY RAISED A HUNDRED. USE ALL EXPEDITION CONSISTENT WITH AIM IN VIEW. RANDALL.

      Had this been signed by Prague, Grist would have acted on the face value of the message forthwith. But Randall's name augured a different meaning; Randall was a miser with words, he loaded them double always. Grist settled to a close scrutiny. "He's glad to hear of my progress. That means get busy. He wants me to be sure everything is legal. All right. If a man wanted to hit me with his left hand he'd keep calling my attention to his right one. That's a plain sign to sift the gold out of what follows. Conflict of land titles—um. I know that. He knows I know it. Check up on surveys with land office. Well, by heavens!"

      He gathered the meaning. Why, this was as ancient as gilding a brick, and as crude. Grist shook his head. "They must want possession fearfully bad. How do they expect me to surround the land agent? I rise to inquire. Grist, you'll earn that extra hundred and live to spend it yet in a Federal jail."

      He folded the note, mulling the situation over and over in his mind. Finally he surrendered. Every man has a dream of creating an empire. Grist had his dream; as far as that went he already possessed the empire and was its titular ruler. But the horizons spread out. More land, more power. And if he didn't do this piece of work some less soft-hearted fellow would. "Therefore, Grist, be about the business. Be about it."

      He sought the land office. The agent saw him come, and before the P.R.N. man said anything the agent beckoned him to an inner room, closed the door, and went through all the motions of extreme secrecy. The fellow looked harried.

      "I know what you're here for," he muttered. "I know what it is."

      "You do?" was Grist's puzzled question. "Well, by Gad, you know more than I do. I'm in a state of mind."

      "I got a telegram from a certain gentleman in Washington," explained the agent. "A gentleman who exerts considerable influence in some quarters."

      "And so did I," grunted the P.R.N. man in evident relief. This made the whole thing easy. How had they managed to pull wires across all this distance? His opinion of his superiors rose.

      The agent struck his knee. "Now, for God's sake, don't give me away! I owe somebody for this job, and I'm paying my debts."

      "With perhaps an added consideration for the case in hand," suggested Grist, feeling himself in control of the situation.

      "I swear not!" exclaimed the agent earnestly. "Do you know what would happen to me if...Well, I'd wear stripes."

      "Entirely unbecoming to one of your tastes," murmured Grist. "Well, let's get to our muttons—or our beeves."

      "I do it under duress," said the agent. "If the commissioner ever got wind of it I'd be crucified and hung up as a specimen."

      "Protest registered. Ever read what Shakespeare said about protests? Never mind. Go on with the details."

      The agent leaned across the desk. "When Gillette filed he brought the location marks, and they were inserted in the application. One of those location marks ended in a figure three. The three has been changed to an eight. I won't say when or where or how or by whom. But it's been changed. Do you understand?"

      "Therefore," mused Grist, "Gillette is squatting beside water he has no right СКАЧАТЬ