And having characteristically decided to do it to-morrow, Bill continued his morning stroll toward the post-office.
CHAPTER III
For reasons obvious and otherwise, Bill Jones did not carry out his intention of visiting John Marvin's cabin "to-morrow." In spite of himself, Bill naturally was drawn into the vortex of work and preparation necessary to turning his home into the Calivada Hotel. The period of change was a nightmare to Bill, the only leaven in his misery being the astonishing fact that he actually evolved quite a number of ideas – ideas which Mrs. Jones, Millie, and Lem Townsend not only O.K.'d, but put into instant execution – and found exceedingly workable. He made many attempts to disappear from the premises, but his wife, or Millie, or Lem always had an eye on him and managed to frustrate his hasty sorties or more subtle schemes to take French leave. This went on day after day, and now Bill had endured nearly six weeks of more or less pleasantly enforced captivity.
In the mean time the mysterious "excitement" up the mountain about which Bill had mused that morning on the trail had come to a head, and John Marvin's little cabin seemed to be the center of it.
It was shortly after sundown one evening that a big, red-headed lumberjack, obviously a Swede, put his head in the door of the cabin and glanced quickly around the one room. Seeing that there was no one inside, he entered, closing the door behind him. Going to the window, he looked out through the thick grove of pines and cedars, but evidently could see no one. He was breathing hard, as if from running, and he sank into a chair.
His rest was short-lived. There was a rap at the door, which was instantly pushed open, and a lanky, sinewy man in sombrero and riding-breeches, with two revolvers at the belt, strode in. The Swede, on his feet in an instant, recognized the intruder as Nevin Blodgett, sheriff of Washoe County.
"What you want?" the lumberjack asked, in his heavy voice.
The sheriff did not answer at once, but took a quick survey of the cabin's contents, his eyes lighting up as they rested upon the unwashed dishes on the table, telling of a recent meal. There was a self-satisfied swagger about the sheriff as he walked up to the Swede.
"You're John Marvin, ain't you?" he demanded.
"No, sir," replied the Swede, with a heavy frown.
The sheriff looked puzzled for a moment; then it seemed to dawn on him that it was just possible that a big, red-headed Swede was not likely to be John Marvin.
"Well!" he snapped. "Then I guess you're working for him, ain't you?"
The lumberjack shook his head and went close to Blodgett, emphasizing his words, "Who I work for bane my business!" There was no fear in his manner as he stood looking into his interrogator's face with a grin that boded ill for any one looking for trouble.
Blodgett backed away, his eyes following the breadth of the Swede's husky shoulders and the line of his powerful arms.
"None of that!" he said. "You're with the gang that's been chopping down that timber out there. You know well enough that Marvin's stealing that timber, don't you?"
"Stealing?"
"Yes! He's stealing it from the Pacific Railroad Company, and I'm here to arrest him for it!"
"Humph!" The Swede shrugged his shoulders and wheeled around, gazing anxiously out of the window, where the path through the forest was visible.
"You know where he is, don't you?" Blodgett asked.
"He gone away."
"Where?" Blodgett stamped his spurred boot.
"I doan' know."
"When did he go?"
"Maybe – yesterday."
"When's he coming back?"
"I doan' think he coomin' back." The Swede deliberately put a kettle on the stove and whistled indifferently.
Blodgett was evidently torn between a desire to maintain his dignity and authority as sheriff and a rather healthy reluctance to have any trouble with the great, hulking Swede.
"It's going to be hard for you if you're lying – "
He got no farther. The Swede stepped up to him with blazing eyes.
"You call me liar?" he yelled. "I throw you out the door!"
Blodgett backed quickly away – very quickly. His hand sought the latch behind him. "If you threaten me, the next thing you know you'll find yourself in jail!" he cried, shaking his fist.
The Swede's only answer was an ugly grin. Blodgett opened the door, slamming it after him as he went away.
The big lumberjack stood quiet for several minutes, listening to the sounds of retreat beaten by the hoofs of Blodgett's horse. Assured that the sheriff was safely out of the way, he crept to the window, thrust his head over the sill, and gave a low whistle.
There was a stir in the soap-plant outside and Marvin emerged, hurried around to the door, and entered the cabin.
"Good work!" he exclaimed, laughing and clapping the grinning Swede on the back. "You got rid of him very well, Oscar! Now I'll go on with my supper!"
He took off his coat and went over to the stove, where he began to shake the damper to let out the ashes. Oscar came and stood beside him.
"He tell me – "
"I know what he told you," Marvin interrupted, continuing to shake the ashes.
"Do that land belong to the railroad?" There was a slight note of alarm in the Swede's voice.
"It does now, Oscar," Marvin replied, throwing some paper and wood into the stove and lighting it; "but I sold the timber a long time before the railroad got the property, and I'm trying to save the timber for the man who bought it from me."
"Oh!" The Swede turned toward the door, as if to go. "Bane they arrest you for that?"
"Not unless they find me!" Marvin chuckled.
"An' me an' the boys – can they arrest oos?"
"No, Oscar," Marvin laughingly reassured him. "You fellows are working for me and you are not supposed to know anything about my affairs."
"Oh!" The Swede gave a satisfied nod of his head. "I see – you know that from – from your books." He jerked his thumb toward a table in the corner on which some law-books stood.
"Yes," said Marvin, looking into the coffee-pot. "Anyhow, you'll be gone in the morning. The job's done, thanks to you and the boys."
The lumberjack stood for a moment, nodding his red head; then he turned slowly and went out.
Marvin put the coffee-pot on the stove, watched it a minute, and then sank thoughtfully into the shabby but comfortable arm-chair at the end of his reading-table – which also served as a dining-table. He sat there for several minutes – until the coffee, boiling over on the stove, brought him out of his reverie and to his feet. At the same moment he caught the sound of remote but high words coming from that part of his land where the recently cut timber was stacked.
"I tell you he bane gone away!" he heard, in Oscar's heavy, threatening voice.
Hurriedly pushing the coffee-pot on to the back of the stove, he sprang to the door, but before he could reach it it was thrust in against him and he was thrown back into the middle of the room, where he stood, perforce, facing a tall, athletic-looking man in motor togs. The man's strong, intellectual face, undoubtedly pleasant and agreeable ordinarily, was now clouded with anger, his jaw set and grim.
At sight of him, however, Marvin's fists unclenched and he smiled amiably, despite the other's attitude.
"Why, hello, Mr. Harper!" he exclaimed, holding out his hand. "You're just the man I've been looking for! But you seem a bit upset. What's the trouble?"
Ignoring the outstretched hand, Harper threw off his duster and tossed it, with his gloves, on the table.
"Just a minute, young man," he said, with a grim tightening of his jaw and his keen eyes boring