Raising The Stakes

“You’ll outlive us all,” Gray said politely.

A knock sounded at the door. Jonas opened it, took a quick look at the tray in his housekeeper’s hands and waved her out.

“Lemonade,” he said, his lip curling with disgust, “and cake. You’d think there was a couple of kids in this here room.” He slammed the door and looked at Gray. “Where was I?”

“You said you wanted to talk.”

“That ain’t what I was saying. I was tellin’ you there’s not much point in me avoidin’ a good shot of whiskey and a fine cigar.” Jonas eased into a chair, motioned to the other one. “But you’re right, I do have some talkin’ to do. I suppose Marta told you I’m dyin’?”

“Uh, well, uh, she said—”

“Come on,” Jonas said impatiently, “don’t play games! There’s just so much time a man has got, and I’ve used up most of mine. Remember what I said last night? That I liked the way you shoot straight? Don’t disappoint me now, boy. I’m dyin’. That’s all there is to it. And you know what? Dyin’s okay. I lived a long, full life.” He smiled, took a puff on the cigar and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Had me five fine wives, four strong sons, built me this ranch and had me enough good times for a dozen men.” The smile faded and he sat forward. “But the closer I come to the end, the more I’ve been thinkin’ that not all them good times was exactly good, if you catch my drift.”

What was the old man getting at? A confession? A cleansing of the soul? Gray cleared his throat.

“Yes, well, all of us do things we’re not proud of, from time to time. I mean—”

“Damnation, boy, get that panicked look off your face.” Jonas scowled darkly. “I told you, If I wanted a pulpit pansy I’d have sent for one. I ain’t about to drop a bunch of regrets in your lap and ask for absolution.” He paused, took a long breath, then got to his feet. Slowly he walked to his desk and picked up a paperweight. “You ever notice this, Graham?”

Gray rose and followed his uncle to the desk. Jonas held out the paperweight. Gray took it from him and, as he hefted it, he realized it wasn’t a paperweight at all. It was a chunk of rock, pitted, rough and heavy, mottled with snaky streaks of what he figured was some kind of mineral deposit.

“No,” he said slowly, “I guess I never did. What is it? Granite?”

The old man chuckled. “Hold it to the light.”

Gray moved to the window and lifted the rock toward the glass. A beam of sunshine struck it, turning the mineral streaks into dazzling ribbons of bright yellow.

“Gold?” Gray said, looking at his uncle. “Is that what this is?”

“That’s what it is, all right. Gold ore.” Jonas took the rock from Gray’s hand and closed his fingers around it. “Took it from a mine in Venezuela, more’n half a century ago.”

“I didn’t know you’d been a gold miner,” Gray said, with a little smile. The old man was right. He had, indeed, led a long and interesting life.

“I been a lot of things.” Jonas opened his fist, looked at the rock, then put it down. “I was a young man back then. Already made me a pile of money in longhorns and some other things nobody else thought would pay off so when my pal, Ben Lincoln, asked me to go fifty-fifty on a mine in South America, I figured why not give it a try? The mine was s’posed to be played out but Ben had reason to believe otherwise.”

He paused for a long moment and stared blindly out the window. Gray felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. It was almost as if the old man saw something out there that nobody else could see.

“So we took ourselves down to Venezuela and then up the Orinoco to this mine in the jungle somebody had worked an’ then abandoned.”

He paused again, this time for so long that Gray moved toward him. “Uncle?” he said softly.

Jonas looked at him. “Yeah. I’m just thinkin’ back.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway,” he said briskly, “turned out Ben was mistaken. We found some gold, but not enough. So Ben and me, we decided to end the partnership.”

Gray took another look at the rock. It was an interesting story, but what did it have to do with him? Jonas was still talking, something about him and Ben Lincoln, how they’d gone their separate ways and he’d come back to build Espada. Gray shot a surreptitious glance at his watch. An hour had gone by. If he didn’t get out of here soon, he wouldn’t make that flight to New York.

“Dammit, boy, how about payin’ some attention here?”

Gray’s head came up. A muscle knotted in his jaw. “You know,” he said, as carefully as he could, “I don’t like being called `boy.’ And I have been paying attention. I’m here, aren’t I, when I should be meeting with a client—and I still don’t know why in hell I came. What do you want, Jonas?”

“I’m getting to that.” The old man hesitated. “Ben died a long time back. A few months ago, I heard—I heard he had some kin. A granddaughter.”

“And? What does any of this have to do with me?”

The old man’s eyes met his. “I’ve owed a debt to Ben all these years, and I’m a man always pays his debts.”

Gray’s eyebrows lifted. “It’s a little late to worry about repaying this one, isn’t it?”

“Ain’t never too late to do the right thing, Graham. You live as long as me, you might just figure that out for yourself.”

“What kind of debt?”

“A debt, dammit,” Jonas said irritably. “What’s the difference?”

Things were starting to make sense. His uncle owed money to a man who was dead. For all he knew, he’d cheated Ben Lincoln out of some gold. Maybe he’d gone back later and found the mother lode. Maybe he’d done it without ever telling Ben Lincoln. Or maybe he’d palmed a couple of aces when they played cards. Knowing Jonas, anything was possible.

Now, with death looming ahead, he was having an attack of conscience. He wanted to make things right and he didn’t want his sons or even his own lawyer to know about it for fear it would tarnish his image. Gray thought of telling him that there wasn’t anything that could do more damage to an image like his, but what would be the point? The old man really didn’t have much time left. It wouldn’t hurt to do this simple thing for him.

“Okay,” he said. He sat down again, picked up his briefcase and snapped it open. “You tell me the granddaughter’s name, give me her address, and—”

“Don’t know her address.”

Gray sighed. “That’s all right. Her name will probably be enough. I’ve got a couple of private investigators I use all the time. They’ll find her.”

“Don’t know her name, neither.”

“You don’t know her name?” Gray repeated, trying to sound patient.

“Jes’ said that, didn’t I?”

“Okay. Okay, then, just tell me whatever you can about this Ben Lincoln. Where he was from. Where he went after you and he broke up the partnership. Anything you remember.”

“Here.” Jonas plucked a manila envelope from the top of his desk. “Figured you’d want whatever information I got. Wrote it all down for you.”

Gray took the envelope and placed it in his briefcase. “Fine.” He uncapped a pen, put a yellow legal pad on his knees. “These guys I know will find Lincoln’s granddaughter.”

Jonas nodded. “I was counting on that.”

“And how do you want to handle this? After they’ve found her, do you want to mail her a check? Or do you want it hand-delivered?”

“A check?”

“Yes,” Gray said, trying to disguise his impatience. “For his granddaughter. You want to keep it impersonal, or—”

“I don’t intend to give the girl a check. If she’s Ben’s offspring, if she’s a decent woman, I’ll want to meet her. Write her into my will.”

Gray looked up. Jonas was standing over him, one bony hand curled around the back of a chair. His eyes were flat, his mouth a grim line, but a dark blue vein throbbed in his papery temple. Something was going on here, something more than the old man had told him, but what?

“You want to write her into your will?”