In order to understand why Vorse and Burkhardt were attacking Martinez’ office it is necessary to trace the lawyer’s movements and the incidents which precipitated that act. Martinez had, as stated, not been idle. Following the clue obtained from the woman who had worked in the elder Weir’s household, he visited the old Mexican named as having been used as roustabout by Vorse in early days. This was old Saurez, whom he knew. The wrinkled old fellow seldom came to town now, spending most of the time sitting against the sunny side of his son’s house on Pina Creek, twenty miles south, where he lived.

Martinez in the ten days that had elapsed since informing Weir he had learned of Saurez’ possible knowledge of the past had proceeded to make himself agreeable to the gray-headed old man. He had explained his “history.” He exercised all the arts of graciousness and flattery. Beginning at the present he worked back through the past to the killing of Jim Dent and the flight of Joseph Weir, extracting tales of early fights, raids, accidents, big storms, violent deaths and killings, making elaborate notes, winning the narrator’s confidence and gradually drawing forth the facts he really sought.

Out of all the rambling talk and vague accounts of the Dent and Weir affair Martinez was able to piece together 136 the fragments in a clear statement. This was that Saurez had seen Weir and Dent in Vorse’s saloon. The pair had gambled for a time with Vorse, Burkhardt (at that time sheriff), Sorenson and Judge Gordon. After losing for a time Weir refused to continue in the poker game, although he was drunk. Dent played on notwithstanding Weir’s urgence to desist; he had already lost all his money and began staking his cattle and finally his ranch. At this stage Weir had gone to sleep at another table, with his head on his arms. Vorse had locked the front door to keep out visitors during the big game. But the back door remained open for air.

Saurez had busied himself cleaning the bar. All at once he saw the players spring up in their game, Dent talking angrily about cheating, marked cards and so on. Then the guns came out when he pointed at a card that was marked––for it had been marked with pinpricks as Saurez saw later on examining the deck, which Dent had perceived in spite of the whisky in him. And Sorenson and Vorse had both shot him where he stood. Yes, shootings were not uncommon. Every one but he, Saurez, had likely forgotten all about the matter. That was long ago.

Afterwards Vorse had sent the Mexican away for something or other, with an injunction to keep his mouth closed. As said, speaking of it now made no difference, though he expected Martinez to keep his promise to publish none of the stories while he was still alive; that was agreed. When the Mexican had left the saloon Weir was yet sleeping, having only raised his head at the pistol shots to stare drunkenly and then relapse. What occurred afterwards Saurez did not know. Weir left the country. Dent was buried, the story being told 137 that he had committed suicide. Every one believed it: had he not lost his ranch at poker? That was the end of the business. Other affairs happened and it was forgotten.

On this Saturday Martinez had persuaded Saurez to accompany him to San Mateo. It would be necessary to sign the stories, he explained lightly, to give them proper weight and in order that when the book was published after Saurez’ death they would be seen to be true accounts, with Saurez’ picture that a photographer would make appearing in the middle. He, Saurez, would be famous, and his sons and grandsons would have copies of the book in their houses to show visitors and the priest. Ah, it would be well to have the priest witness Saurez’ signature, then sceptical people would know indeed that the stories were Saurez’ own accounts. So on and so on.

The matter required infinite precautions, patience, skill on the lawyer’s part. He had prepared two or three dozen depositions of events, as a husk for the real kernel. With Saurez in his office at last he telephoned the priest to call at once and unostentatiously caught on the street four other Mexicans of the better class, bringing them in. When the priest arrived he closed the door and explained his desire they should act as witnesses to Saurez’ statements. He had already solicited the padre’s advice as to the history; the others all had heard of it; he gave them a number of the most harmless depositions to read; and set Saurez to work making his mark on the rest of the papers. During the reading and the accompanying lively discussion of the witnesses, he had them pause to witness Saurez’ mark with their own names in the places provided. About the tenth deposition when their attention was confused and flagging 138 he slipped the account concerning Weir and Dent, a many-paged attestation, upon the table, so folded that nothing but the signing space was visible. It was the critical instant for Martinez; his thin body was more nervous than ever, his eyes brighter and more restless. But at last the ordeal was over.

Saurez’ heavy black cross was at the bottom of the important deposition, the priest and the other four men had appended their names, and all that remained to do was for Martinez to fill out the acknowledgment and affix his seal. He whisked the document behind his back and called attention to a humorous episode in a paper one of the men still held, starting a laugh. Then he suggested they rest and opened a bottle of wine, over which the others congratulated Saurez and Martinez and predicted a wonderful fame for the “Chronicle.” Finally the lawyer perceived, as he said, that Saurez was weary. Anyway, it was supper-time. The remaining papers could be signed another day.

The witnesses departed, much pleased with the affair.

“Walk up and down outside for a little time while I straighten the sheets, then we’ll go eat and afterwards I’ll drive you home to bed,” the attorney said. “The fresh air will give you an appetite. Behold, you’re already becoming a famous man! I shall preserve these documents safely as they are tremendously important to our town, our state, our country!” And a grandiloquent gesture accompanied the words. “Come back in a little while, my friend, then we’ll see how much food you can hide away.”

Saurez much gratified at these words and at everything went out slowly, for he was troubled by rheumatism. The instant his back disappeared Martinez sprang to the table, swiftly filled out the acknowledgment of the 139 old man’s signature to the Weir document, clapped the page under the seal and pressed home the stamp. Then pushing the folded statement into an envelope and that into his pocket, he leaned back with a sigh of exhaustion. The thing was accomplished at last, but the strain had been great. Weir’s command to secure evidence had been obeyed. Only the promise to await Saurez’ death, troubled Martinez, and with a convenient sophistry he decided that an agreement not to print the narrative in a book did not extend to using it in court. Weir would be delighted––it was a famous coup.

How long Martinez sat reveling in this well-earned satisfaction he was unaware, until with a start he glanced at his watch. Three-quarters of an hour had passed. He went out to look for Saurez. But he was not in sight and though several persons had seen him they could not say where he had gone. Martinez went again into his office. When another half-hour had drifted by he decided the old man had encountered friends and either caught a ride home or gone with one to supper. So Martinez proceeded to his own meal.

Yet he was pervaded by an unaccountable uneasiness. The sun had set in a bank of clouds and night was not far off. He made another search for the old Mexican, inquiring here and there, until he was informed by one that he had seen Saurez in Vorse’s saloon talking with Vorse and sipping a glass of brandy. That was half an hour before. A chill of fear spread over the lawyer’s skin.

Determined, however, to learn the worst, he stole to the saloon and peered over the slatted door. The Mexican bar-keeper was wiping a glass; Vorse was not in sight; and––ha! there was Saurez himself drowsing by a 140 table. Martinez slipped in and made his way to the rear.

“Come; time to go home,” he said softly, giving the old Mexican’s shoulder a shake. This did not arouse the sleeper, so he added force to his hand, at which the other sagged forward limply.

Martinez jumped back. Next he stood quite still, staring. Then he approached and lifting the drooping head, gazed at the wrinkled face and glazed eyes.

“Miguel, come here!” he exclaimed, anxiously. “Saurez is dead.”

“Dead!” The bar-keeper ran to the spot, eyes large with alarm and excitement. “Dios, I thought him asleep! See, there is the glass in which I gave him brandy at SeÑor Vorse’s order. The old one said he had come in to pay a little visit to his old employer and have a chat. They talked for some time.”

“Was Vorse asking him questions?”

“Yes. I think Saurez was telling him how he happened to be in town. I paid little attention to them, however. After a while I glanced up and saw Vorse standing by him. They were not talking. Then Vorse came away and said the old man had fallen asleep, and he went out to supper.”

Martinez again lifted the head and darted glances over the dead man’s breast. There were no wounds, but on the shriveled brown throat he saw what might have been a thumb-mark. He could not be sure, yet that was his guess.

“He was an old man,” Miguel remarked.

“Yes. You should notify his son and also the undertaker, so the body can be taken care of. I’ll telephone the latter too when I reach my office.”

This Martinez did, informing Saurez’s family that 141 the old man had died while apparently asleep at Vorse’s, and expressed his sympathy and sorrow.

One feature of the case he instantly perceived; he was released from any obligation to keep silent regarding the old man’s declaration. Fortunate was he to have obtained it before Vorse had got wind of his purpose. At the thought of Vorse he arose and locked both front and back doors of the building, pulled down the window shades and turned out the light.

It was almost dark by now. In the darkness he felt safer. Any one passing would suppose him away. Perhaps he should spend the night elsewhere––at the dam, for instance. Again the same shudder shook his frame that he had experienced on seeing the mark on Saurez’ throat. Vorse had killed the old Mexican, of that he was convinced. With his tongue made garrulous by brandy and by the presence of his old employer the old man had doubtless related everything that occurred between him and Martinez; and the vulture-like, bald-headed saloon-keeper, recognizing that he had been unconsciously betrayed had immediately acted to close this witness’ lips forever against a second utterance.

Martinez himself was in danger. The perspiration dampened his face as he realized that as far as he was concerned the die was cast. He must fling in his fortunes with Weir to the utmost. He would first stand in defense on his right as a lawyer to secure evidence for a client, but if this failed––and what rights would Vorse halt for?––he must depend upon the paper. Once they had that, they would speedily put him out of the way as they had done Saurez. But if they had it not, they would at least hesitate to wreak their vengeance until they could get it into their possession. He must place it in Weir’s hands at once, then if questioned refuse to 142 inform them of its whereabouts. Perhaps they would try to seize it some time this night. He stood up, lighted the lamp, saw that all was well in the office and took his hat.

A peremptory knock sounded on the door of the rear room.

“Open up there, Martinez,” a voice commanded.

He stole thither, listened.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Never mind. Open this door or I’ll pull it down,” came in hoarse tones he recognized as Burkhardt’s. The man, or men, outside had chosen the rear to force an entrance if necessary, where there would be no spectators. “Jerk it open quick,” Burkhardt continued savagely. “We want you.” Then again, “We knew you were there, though you kept the place dark. Move lively before I use this ax.”

Never did Martinez’ mind work more rapidly. Likewise his eyes darted everywhere in search of the object he needed. Then he glided to a decrepit arm-chair and turning it over stuffed the document in a rent in its padded seat, out of sight underneath. Next he filled his pockets with other papers signed by Saurez. Last, he hastily tore open the little telephone book and ran a forefinger down the H’s.

“Doctor Hosmer’s, hurry,” he exclaimed. “Number F28.”

Blows were already sounding on the rear door, but the lock was strong and resisted. Of all the persons he knew Janet Hosmer was the only one he could trust to keep her word. And he dare not wait until Weir could come.

“Is this you, Janet? Martinez talking,” he said, when he heard her answer. “Listen. I’m at my office; men 143 are trying to break in to get a paper valuable for Mr. Weir’s defense. They must not get it. He’s to be arrested and tried for murder of the man he killed. You and I know he’s innocent. This is a life and death matter. The paper is hidden in the old chair. The men are breaking down the door. I’ll get them away long enough for you to come and obtain it. Give it to Weir––at once, to-night, immediately. Promise me you will, promise! My own life probably hangs on it. Return to your house and stay for half an hour and if he hasn’t arrived by that time, go to the dam. Thank you, thank you––from my heart! Start now.”

The words had tumbled out in an agitated stream, occupying but a few seconds. The panels were splintering in the door now, as the ax smashed a way through. Martinez had no need to look up Weir’s number; and it was in a strain of terror and excitement that he waited for the connection.

“See Janet Hosmer at once,” he shot at the engineer, followed by the rest of the warning already quoted which had so electrifying an effect upon Steele Weir.

But the words had broken off abruptly. For as the door crashed off its hinges Martinez dropped the telephone receiver and darted for the front entrance, shooting back the bolt and flinging it open. He almost plunged into Vorse who was on guard there.

“Stand still,” the man ordered. And Martinez kept the spot as if congealed, for in the saloon-keeper’s hand was a revolver with an exceedingly large muzzle.

Burkhardt burst in, ax still in hand, eyes bloodshot with rage. Vorse turned and closed the front door. Then he glanced over the lawyer’s table and ran a hand into his inside coat pocket bulging with documents. He glanced through one or two.

“Here’s what we’re after,” said he. “We’ll take him to my place where we can quietly settle the matter.” His eyes rested on the Mexican with ominous meaning.

“Come along, you snake,” Burkhardt growled, seizing their prisoner’s arm. “Out the back way––and keep your mouth shut. Don’t try to make a break of any kind, if you know what’s best for you.”

Martinez’ yellow skin was almost white.

“But, gentlemen, what does this all mean?” he began, endeavoring to pull back.

“You’ll learn soon enough.”

“Step right along,” Vorse added. “Take him away, Burkhardt, then I’ll blow out this light.”

With no further word Martinez accompanied his captors into the gloom of the night. They moved in silence through the dark space behind the row of store buildings. The lawyer felt that at least the way was clear for Janet Hosmer.