The Forbidden Way

It seemed incredible. When had Rita done this? The grim lines that his long night's vigil had seared at the corners of his mouth grew deeper, but his eyes glowed with a sombre fire. There was still an even chance to win – for Larry was holding the fort awaiting reinforcements, and Rita Cheyne had restored the break in Jeff's line of communication. The astonishing information in Larry's last wire seemed to clear his mind of the doubts which had assailed it all night long. The possibility of success now gave his own affairs a different complexion. He could never have told the truth to General Bent (Jeff couldn't think of him as a father) unless he won the fight for the independence of the Saguache Smelter. Jeff was no man to come cringing in the hour of failure at the feet of his enemy, asking immunity on the strength of such a relationship as that which existed between them. It had been clear to Jeff all night long that if he lost his fight he could never face General Bent with the truth. That was the real bitterness of defeat.

But if he won? The long years of dishonor through which he had struggled, without a name, without kindred, without friends, loomed large before him – mute, merciless years of struggle, privation, and emptiness. If he won, there was more than one victory to be gained in this fight, a moral victory as well as a physical one – the triumph of an eternal truth, the vindication of a forgotten wrong. If he won he would tell General Bent the truth – not as a son to a father, but as one merciless enemy to another, asking no quarter and giving none.

The only connection for Kinney at Saguache was with the later train, but Jeff had arranged for a motor-car which took him over the Pass and landed him at Kinney in time for the twelve o'clock train for Denver, where he arrived at six o'clock that evening. Larry met him at the station, smiling broadly.

"I think we've put a spoke in their wheel, Jeff," he laughed. "But we must keep dark. To-morrow morning when the banks open you're going to take up that stock, then we're going to call on the General."

"Is everything all right?"

"Yes, Symonds is standing pat, but they don't know it. The new General Manager comes in to-morrow, but Symonds's orders will go through first. That train will run, Jeff – sure."

"Poor old Larry! a fine honeymoon you're having! Where's your wife?"

"At the Wetherall Ranch. Went out there last night. Her mother has been out to see her. It looks as though they might come around. It's too bad I had to go against them just now, but Mr. Janney forced my hand, and I had to. You understand, don't you, Jeff?" And, explaining as they went, Berkely followed Jeff out of the station, into a motor-car that was awaiting them.

CHAPTER XXV

THE CRISIS

One of the rooms in Janney's suite had been turned into an office for General Bent, and here it was that all the conferences between the officers of the Amalgamated Reduction Company and their underlings had taken place. The big men of Denver had all called to pay their respects to the bigger man from the East, and some of them had taken part in the business of reorganizing the Denver and California and its subsidiary companies.

But in spite of the conditions which had made Bent's control of the railroad possible and the money the crowd would make out of it, everybody in this intimate circle knew that the real object of the General's financial operations was the fight of the Amalgamated Reduction Company for the ownership of the Saguache Smelter. The reorganization of the Denver and California had now been completed, and this morning orders had gone forth removing Clinton, Symonds, and all the old crowd from the active management of the road.

General Bent sat at the end of the long desk table in conference with Curtis Janney, Cortland Bent, and a youngish-oldish, keen-eyed man in a cutaway coat and white waistcoat. This was Henry McCabe of Denver – attorney for the Amalgamated – the shrewdest lawyer west of the Missouri River, and one of the shrewdest east of it. In front of McCabe on the desk was a leather portfolio from which a number of papers protruded. Behind him sat a clerk who had been taking down in shorthand his questions and the replies of two men at the farther end of the table. These men were roughly dressed, and, though at the present moment each of them smoked one of Curtis Janney's remarkable cigars, they sat aloof and uncomfortable on their gilt chairs, assuming attitudes of ease they were far from feeling. One of the strangers was Max Reimer, the man who had discovered the lost vein in the "Lone Tree" mine. The other was Fritz Weyl, one-time barkeeper of Pete Mulrennan's saloon in Mesa City.

McCabe's examination had hardly been concluded when two cards were brought in by a page and handed to Cortland Bent. He glanced at them, and then, without comment, laid them on the table before his father.

"H – m! He's here now," muttered the General, staring grimly. "He's saved us the trouble of sending for him." He tossed the cards on the table and rose. "There's nothing more you wanted to ask, was there, McCabe?"

"No, sir, nothing. I know all I need to."

"I thought so. Will you take these men downstairs? But have them within call – I may need them. Have Harbison handy, too. Curtis, you'll stay, of course – and you, Cort." Then to the waiting servant, "Show these gentlemen up."

When Wray and Berkely entered, General Bent had resumed his chair at the head of the table, and Cortland and Curtis Janney sat on either side of him. The General's head was bent forward in its customary pose, his shaggy brows lowered so that his eyes were scarcely visible, but in the smile that twisted one end of his thin lips Berkely read a sardonic confidence in the outcome of the interview. On entering the room Wray fixed his wide gaze on General Bent, his eyes gleaming strangely, and kept it on him as though fascinated, until, at a word from Cortland Bent, he sank into a chair beside Berkely. Aside from this civility, no amenities passed. General Bent had sunk back in his armchair, coolly swinging his glasses by their cord, while he keenly eyed Berkely, who had begun talking. Curtis Janney, trying to bury his personal animosities in the present issue, folded his stout arms resolutely and leaned forward upon the table.

"We understand, General Bent, that it is you – representing Eastern interests – who have obtained a majority of the stock of the Denver and California Railroad Company. Am I correctly informed?"

General Bent's head dropped the fraction of an inch. "Your information is correct," he said shortly.

"As general counsel for the Saguache Short Line," Berkely went on, "I am here to inform you that, in accordance with a contract entered into in March of last year, the Denver and California made certain traffic arrangements with my Company conditional upon the completion of the Saguache Short Line upon a specified date. My company accepted these conditions and has succeeded in carrying out to the letter the terms of its agreements – "

"One moment, Mr. Berkely," put in the General with a vague attempt to be humorous, "if I may ask, what is the Saguache Short Line? A telegraph, stage, or railroad company?"

Wray's jaw set, and he glared angrily, but Berkely only smiled.

"A railroad company, sir," he said with suave directness, "controlling a right of way from Pueblo to Saguache – the most direct line from the Saguache to the market. Our tracks are laid, our signals in place, our stations built, and this morning we are advised that the Denver and California is running its first train through from Pueblo to Saguache!"

The three men started, and Berkely grinned.

"I may add that in addition to Mr. Clinton (who at ten o'clock this morning had not yet retired from the presidency of your road), the train also carries other officers of your company as well as stockholders of mine. A lunch has been provided at the northern terminus of the road, and a spirit of harmony dominates the occasion – one which I'm sure you'll admit is noteworthy in every particular."

General Bent's brow twitched ominously. "I hope, Mr. Berkely, you'll come to the point without delay," he said.

"Willingly. The Saguache Short Line has fulfilled its part of the contract. The present officers of your company are willing to carry out theirs. The object of our visit was merely to reassure ourselves of your friendly disposition – the friendly disposition of the newly elected officers of your road – and to arrange with all proper haste a practical schedule for the operation of the line."

Larry paused and sank back in his chair with a smile. General Bent had risen and was leaning forward over the table toward Berkely, his face a thunder-cloud.

"You want a schedule, do you?" he growled, his voice deepening. "Well, I'll give you one – I'll give it to you now, and it won't take a great while, either. As long as I'm in control of the Denver and California Railroad Company not a wheel shall turn on your little jerk-water line within a mile of Pueblo. That's my answer to your proposition. Our yard limit marks your terminus – do you understand? Get your ore there if you can find any," he finished brutally.

But Berkely refused to lose his temper.

"You're aware, of course," he said coolly, "that such a policy is likely to prove expensive?"

"You'll have to show that."

"I think we will. But I can't believe that you repudiate this contract," said Larry, tapping a paper with his forefinger.

"I didn't make that contract. I would never have made it. The courts will pass on its validity."

"Then this is final?"

"Absolutely. Is there anything more you want to say?"

"I think that's all, General Bent," said Berkely, rising. "I had hoped you would have been willing to meet us in a fair spirit. Failing to discover that – either in your attitude or your demeanor – I suppose there is nothing else to be said."

"One moment," interrupted the General, sinking back in his chair with an effort at self-control. "Sit down, please. There's something more to be said – something which you both may be interested to hear." And he addressed his remarks directly to Wray. "I can't say that I've watched your efforts to put your plans through without some interest, Mr. Wray. Under other circumstances I may say that I would have been compelled to a kind of admiration for your fruitless perseverance. It's all the more remarkable in the face of the obstacles with which you had to contend. But we are fully informed as to your actual financial strength, and I think the time has come when we may draw aside the veil and speak frankly. Mr. Berkely informs me that he intends to proceed against the Denver and California Railroad Company. To do this, of course, he must have the proper authority. Are you sure that he can get it?"

Larry smiled. "I think so."

"To do so he requires, does he not, a majority vote of the Denver and Saguache Railroad Company as well as that of the Short Line – those two companies and the Development Company, as I understand it, being in a way dependent one upon the other?"

"That is correct."

The General settled back in his chair, swinging his gold eyeglasses daintily.

"How is he going to get that authority?" he asked.

His smile infuriated Wray, who replied quickly.

"By virtue of my control of all companies," he said crisply.

"Your control?" said Bent; "you have no control. I know your resources to a dollar, Mr. Wray. To-day at twelve o'clock your Denver and Saguache Railroad Company stock will be in my possession."

Wray exchanged a glance with Berkely and laughed dryly.

"Oh, you're really coming in with us at last, are you, General?" he said. "That's fine!" And then with a chuckle, "Your name on the directorate of the Denver and Saguache ought to have some weight with the new officers of the Denver and California."

The frown on Bent's brows deepened. The point of this joke did not dawn on him.