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Fighting Shepherdess, The

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<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> <h3>THE BANK PUTS ON THE SCREWS</h3></div> In the initial excitement it had seemed a simple matter to apprehend the murderer of Mormon Joe with such clues as were furnished by the axe, the rope, the shotgun and the button, which were found in the snow beneath the window. But investigation showed that the axe and rope were no different from scores of other axes and ropes in Prouty, and it was soon recognized that the solution of the case hinged upon the ownership of the gun and the finding of a motive for this peculiarly cowardly and ingenious murder. But no one could be found to identify the gun, nor could any amount of inquiry unearth an enemy with a grudge sufficiently deep to inspire murder. Although the room was packed to the doors, nothing startling was anticipated from the coroner’s inquest; and while Kate had been summoned as a witness it was not expected that much would be learned from her testimony. The crowd was concerned chiefly in seeing “how she was taking it.” But curiosity became suspicion and suspicion conviction, when Kate, as white as the alabastine wall behind her, admitted that she and Mormon Joe had quarreled the night before the murder, and over money; that she knew how to set a trap-gun and had set them frequently for mountain lions; that she could ride forty miles in a few hours if necessary. The sensation came, however, when the coroner revealed the fact that under the dead man’s will she was the sole beneficiary. Her denial of any knowledge of this was received incredulously, and her emphatic declaration that she had never before seen the shotgun carried no conviction. The coroner and jury, after deliberation, decided that there was not sufficient evidence to hold her, but the real argument which freed her was the cost to the taxpayers of convening a Grand Jury, and the subsequent proceedings, if the jury decided to try her. Kate would as well have been proven guilty and convicted, for all the difference the verdict of the coroner’s jury made in the staring crowd that parted to let her pass as she came from the inquest. She had untied her horse with the unseeing eyes of a sleep-walker and was about to put her foot in the stirrup when Lingle came up to her. “I’m goin’ to do all I can to clear you,” he said, earnestly, “and I got the mayor behind me. He said he’d use every resource of his office to get this murderer. I believe in you—and don’t you forget it!” She had not been able to speak, but the look in her eyes had thanked him. Two days later, Kate was disinfecting the wound of a sheep that an untrained dog had injured when a note from the Security State Bank was handed her by one of Neifkins’ herders. It was signed by its President, Mr. Vernon Wentz, late of the White Hand Laundry, and there was something which filled her with forebodings in the curt request for an immediate interview. It was too late to start for Prouty that day, but she would leave early in the morning, so she went on applying a solution of permanganate of potassium to the wound and sprinkling it with a healing powder while she conjectured as to what Wentz might want of her. In her usual work Kate found an outlet for the nervous tension under which she was still laboring. It helped a little, though it seemed impossible to believe that she ever again would be serene of mind and able to think clearly. Her thoughts were a jumble; as yet she could only feel and suffer terribly. Remorse took precedence over all other emotions, over the sense of loneliness and loss, over the appalling accusation. Her writhing conscience was never quiet. She would gladly have exchanged every hope of the future she dared harbor for five minutes of the dead man’s life in which to beg forgiveness. In the short interval since the coroner’s inquest public opinion had crystallized in Prouty, and Kate’s guilt was now a certainty in the minds of its citizens. “She done it, all right, only they can’t prove it on her.” Hiram Butefish merely echoed the opinion of the community when he made the assertion, upon seeing Kate turn the corner by the Prouty House and ride down the main street the day following the delivery of Mr. Wentz’s summons. Suffering had made Kate acutely sensitive and she was quick to feel the atmosphere of hostility. She read it in the countenances of the passersby on the sidewalk, in the cold eyes staring at her from the windows, in the bank president’s uncompromising attitude, even in the cashier’s supercilious inventory as he looked her over. Kate had entered the wide swinging doors of the bank simultaneously with Mr. Abram Pantin, at whom Mr. Wentz had waved a long white hand and requested him languidly to be seated. Since he already had motioned Kate to the only chair beside the one he himself occupied in his enclosure, it was clear there was no way for Mr. Pantin to accept the invitation unless he sat on the floor. It chafed Pantin exceedingly to be patronized by one who so recently had done his laundry, but since his business at the bank was of an imperative nature he concealed his annoyance with the best grace possible and waited. Temporarily, at least, Mr. Wentz had lost his equilibrium. From washing the town’s soiled linen to loaning it money was a change so sudden and radical that the rise made him dizzy; he was apt, therefore, to be a little erratic, his manner varying during a single conversation from the cold austerity of a bloodless capitalist to the free and easy democracy of the days when he had stood in the doorway of his laundry in his undershirt and “joshed” the passersby. Mr. Wentz had a notion, fostered by his wife, that he was rather a handsome fellow. True, years of steaming had given to his complexion a look not unlike that of an evaporated apple, but this small defect was more than offset by a luxuriant brown mustache which he had trained carefully. His hair was sleek and neatly trimmed, and he used his brown eyes effectively upon occasions. His long hands with their supple fingers were markedly white, also from the steaming process. Being tall and of approximately correct proportions, his ready-made clothes fitted him excellently—as a matter of fact, Vernon Wentz would have passed for a “gent” anywhere. Not unmindful of the presence of Mr. Pantin, of whom he secretly stood in awe, although he knew of his own knowledge that Pantin sheared his collars, Wentz swung about in his office chair and said abruptly: “Didn’t expect I’d have to send for you.” Kate’s troubled eyes were fixed upon him. “I had nothing to come for.” It pleased Mr. Wentz to regard her with a smile of tolerant amusement. “Don’t know anything about finance, do you?” “I’ve never had any business to attend to. I will learn, though.” Wentz smiled enigmatically. Then, brusquely: “We might as well come to the point and have it over—do you know them sheep’s mortgaged?” “I knew,” hesitatingly, “that Uncle Joe had borrowed for our expenses, but I didn’t know how he did it.” “That’s how he did it,” curtly. “And the mortgage includes the leases and the whole bloomin’ outfit.” “But he only borrowed a few hundred,” she ventured. “We require ample security,” importantly. “What is it you want of me?” Kate’s voice trembled slightly. The import of the interview was beginning to dawn upon her. Wentz cleared his throat and announced impressively: “There was a meeting of the directors called yesterday and it was decided that the bank must have its money.” She cried aghast: “I haven’t it, Mr. Wentz!” “Then there’s only one alternative.” “You mean ship the sheep?” Wentz stroked his mustache. “That’s about the size of it.” “But sheep are way down,” she protested. “It would take almost the two bands at present to pay off the debt and shipping expenses.” “That’s not our funeral.” “And the leases are of no value without stock for them.” Mr. Wentz lowered his silken lashes and suggested smoothly as he continued to caress the treasured growth gently: “Neifkins might be induced to take the leases off your hands at a nominal figure.” Mr. Pantin cooling his heels at the outer portals smiled. He knew what Kate did not—that Neifkins was one of the directors. “But the notes are not due until early next summer—after shearing. Uncle Joe told me so.” “True,” he assented. Then with a large air of erudition: “The law, however, provides for such cases as this. When the security of the mortgager is in jeopardy through incompetence or other causes he can foreclose immediately.” Kate paled as she listened. “But there’s no danger, Mr. Wentz,” she protested breathlessly. “Your money’s as safe as when Uncle Joe was living. I understand sheep—he said I was a better sheepman than he was because I had more patience and like them. I’ll watch them closer than ever—day or night I’ll never leave them. I’ll promise you! I’ve got a good herder now and between us we can handle them.” Mr. Wentz shrugged a skeptical shoulder. “You couldn’t convince the directors of that. There’s none of ’em wants to risk the bank’s money with a woman in that kind of business.” “But can’t you see,” she pleaded, “that it’s ruin to ship now? It will wipe me out completely. Put some one out there of your own choosing, if you can’t trust me, but don’t make me sell with the bottom out of the market!” “You’ve got the bank’s decision,” he responded, coldly. “Please—please reconsider! Just give me a chance—you won’t be sorry! I only know sheep—I’ve never had the opportunity to learn anything else, and I’ve no place to go but that little homestead back in the hills. I’ve no one in the world to turn to. Won’t you give me a trial, and then if you see I can’t handle it—” “It’s no use arguin’.” Wentz brought both hands down on the arms of the chair in impatient finality. “We’re goin’ to ship as soon as we can get cars and drive to the railroad, so you might as well turn them sheep over and stop hollerin’.” Kate rose and took a step forward, her hands outstretched in entreaty: “Once more I ask you—give me a little time—I’ll try and raise the money somewhere—ten days—give me ten days—I beg of you!” “Ten years or ten days or ten minutes—’twould be all the same,” his voice was raucous as he, too, stood up. He looked at her contemptuously. “No; it’s settled. The bank’s goin’ to take over them sheep, and if there’s anything left after the mortgage is satisfied you’ll get it.” He indicated that the interview was over. “Step in, Pantin.” For the second time within the week Kate went out in the street stunned by the blow which had been dealt her: She stood uncertainly for a moment on the edge of the sidewalk and then began slowly to untie the bridle reins. “Here’s a message that came for you yesterday; we had no way of getting it to you.” The girl from the telephone office was regarding her curiously. Kate turned at the sound of a voice beside her, and took the message which had been telephoned from the nearest telegraph office. <div class='blockquot'> Have just learned of your trouble. Is there anything I can do for you? All sympathy. Hugh </div> She read it twice, carefully, while her eyes filled with tears of longing, then she accompanied the girl to the telephone office where she wrote her answer. <div class='blockquot'> I need nothing. Thank you. Kate Prentice </div> In the meantime Mrs. Toomey was becoming acquainted with a new phase of her husband’s character. She had thought she was familiar with all sides of it, those for which she loved him and those which taxed her patience and loyalty; but this moroseness, this brooding ugliness, was different. He smoked continuously, ate little, drank more coffee than ever she had known him to, and at night twisted and turned restlessly. She could not account for it, since, so far as she knew, there was no more to trouble him than the usual worry as to where their next meals were coming from. She surreptitiously studied his face wearing this new expression, and asked herself what would become of him with his violent temper, illogical reasoning and lack of balance, if it were not for the restraint of their association? Daily he became a stronger convert to the doctrine that the world owed every one—himself in particular—a living. It was one Mrs. Toomey did not hold with. She was thankful now that she had not told him of Kate and her promise and aroused hopes that would only have meant further disappointment, in view of developments. She knew, of course, the current gossip to the effect that the Security State Bank was about to foreclose and “set Kate afoot,” as the phrase was. Mrs. Toomey was truly sorry. Her liking for Kate was more genuine than any feeling of the kind she had had for another woman in a longer time than she could remember. Because, perhaps, the girl was so strikingly her opposite in every particular, she admired Kate exceedingly. The freshness of her candid friendly face, her general wholesomeness attracted her. She felt also the latent strength of character beneath the ingenuous surface, and the girl’s courage and self-reliance drew her in her own trembling uncertainty at this period, like a magnet. Mrs. Toomey’s impulses were more often kind than otherwise, and she would have liked nothing better than to have gone to Kate in this crisis, for she believed thoroughly in Kate’s innocence and guessed how much she needed a woman’s friendship. Mrs. Toomey had a rather active conscience and it troubled her. Naturally, she had not forgotten the “handshake agreement” which was to cement their friendship, but she argued that as Kate had not been able to fulfill her share of it she could not be expected to live up to her end, since it would mean opposition from Jap and no benefit to offset it. But in her heart Mrs. Toomey knew that it was not Jap she feared so much as the disapproval of Mrs. Abram Pantin. Toomey was brooding as usual, when footsteps were heard on the wooden sidewalk and a sharp rap followed. Mrs. Toomey was kneading bread on the kitchen table. Toomey had sold a pair of silver sugar tongs to a cowpuncher who opined that they were the very thing he had been looking for with which to eat oysters. The slipperiness of a raw oyster annoyed and embarrassed him, so he purchased the tongs gladly, and the sack of flour which resulted gave Mrs. Toomey a feeling of comparative security while it lasted. She called through the doorway: “You go, Jap. I’m busy.” He arose mechanically, opened the door, started back, then stepped out and closed it after him. At the kitchen table Mrs. Toomey saw the pantomime and was curious. The sound of voices raised in altercation followed. She recognized that of Teeters. “I tell you it is, Toomey! I’ll swear to it! I’d know it anywhere because of that peculiarity!” She could not catch the words of a second speaker, but the tone was equally aggressive and unfriendly. “Then prove it!” Toomey’s voice was shrill with excitement and defiant. They all lowered their voices abruptly as though they had been admonished, but the tones reached her, alternately threatening, argumentative, even pleading. What in the world was it all about, she wondered as she kneaded. For twenty minutes or more it lasted, and then Teeters’ voice came clearly, vibrating with contempt as well as purpose: “You got a yellow streak a yard wide and if it takes the rest of our natural life Lingle and me between us are goin’ to prove it!” Toomey’s answer was a jeering laugh of defiance, but when he came in and slammed the door behind him, she saw that his face was a sickly yellow and his shaking hand spilled the tobacco which he tried to pour upon a cigarette paper. She waited a moment for an explanation but, since it was not forthcoming, asked anxiously: “What’s the matter, Jap?” He did not hear her. She persisted: “Who was it?” “Teeters and Lingle.” “The deputy sheriff?” He nodded. She came a little further into the room with her flour-covered hands. “What did they want, Jap, that’s so upset you?” “I’m not upset!” He glared at her. His trembling hand could not touch the match to the cigarette paper. “It’s only right that you should tell me,” she said firmly. His eyes wavered. “It’s about the cook stove; Teeters wants to foreclose the mortgage.” She regarded him fixedly, turned, and started for the kitchen. She knew that he was lying. <hr class='major' /> <div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em'> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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