The Riverman

S >> Stewart Edward White >> The Riverman

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Orde shook his head.

"No," said he decidedly. "Rather not. I'll run this. Please say
nothing."

"Of course not!" interjected Taylor, a trifle indignantly.

"And I'll figure out what I want to do."

Orde pressed Taylor to stay to supper; but the latter declined.
After a few moments' conversation on general topics the lawyer took
his departure, secretly marvelling over the phlegmatic way in which
Orde had taken what had been to Taylor, when he first stumbled
against it, a shocking piece of news.

XLVII

Orde did not wish to return to the office until he had worked his
problem out; so, to lend his absence the colour of naturalness, he
drove back next morning to the booms. There he found enough to keep
him occupied all that day and the next. As in those times the long
distance telephone had not yet been attempted, he was cut off from
casual communication with the village. Late in the afternoon he
returned home.

A telephone to Carroll apprised him that all was well with her. A
few moments later the call sounded, and Orde took a message that
caused him to look grave and to whistle gently with surprise. He
ate supper with Bobby. About star-time he took his hat and walked
slowly down the street beneath the velvet darkness of the maples.
At Newmark's he turned in between the oleanders.

Mallock answered his ring.

"No, sir, Mr. Newmark is out, sir," said Mallock. "I'll tell him
you called, sir," and started respectfully but firmly to close the
door.

But Orde thrust his foot and knee in the opening.

"I'll come in and wait," said he quietly.

"Yes, sir, this way, sir," said Mallock, trying to indicate the
dining-room, where he wished Orde to sit until he could come at his
master's wishes in the matter.

Orde caught the aroma of tobacco and the glimmer of light to the
left. Without reply he turned the knob of the door and entered the
library.

There he found Newmark in evening dress, seated in a low easy chair
beneath a lamp, smoking, and reading a magazine. At Orde's
appearance in the doorway, he looked up calmly, his paper knife
poised, keeping the place.

"Oh, it's you, Orde," said he.

"Your man told me you were not in," said Orde.

"He was mistaken. Won't you sit down?"

Orde entered the room and mechanically obeyed Newmark's suggestion,
his manner preoccupied. For some time he stared with wrinkled brow
at a point above the illumination of the lamp. Newmark, over the
end of his cigar, poised a foot from his lips, watched the riverman
with a cool calculation.

"Newmark," Orde began abruptly at last, "I know all about this
deal."

"What deal?" asked Newmark, after a barely perceptible pause.

"This arrangement you made with Heinzman."

"I borrowed some money from Heinzman for the firm."

"Yes; and you supplied that money yourself."

Newmark's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Orde glanced toward
him, then away again, as though ashamed.

"Well," said Newmark at last, "what of it?"

"If you had the money to lend why didn't you lend it direct?"

"Because it looks better to mortgage to an outside holder."

An expression of profound disgust flitted across Orde's countenance.
Newmark smiled covertly, and puffed once or twice strongly on his
nearly extinct cigar.

"That was not the reason," went on Orde. "You agreed with Heinzman
to divide when you succeeded in foreclosing me out of the timber
lands given as security. Furthermore you instructed Floyd to go out
on the eve of that blow in spite of his warnings; and you contracted
with McLeod for the new vessels; and you've tied us up right and
left for the sole purpose of pinching us down where we couldn't meet
those notes. That's the only reason you borrowed the seventy-five
thousand on your own account; so we couldn't borrow it to save
ourselves."

"It strikes me you are interesting but inconclusive," said Newmark,
as Orde paused again.

"That sort of thing is somewhat of a facer," went on Orde without
the slightest attention to the interjection. "It took me some days
to work it out in all its details; but I believe I understand it all
now. I don't quite understand how you discovered about my
California timber. That 'investigation' was a very pretty move."

"How the devil did you get onto that?" cried Newmark, startled for a
moment out of his cool attitude of cynical aloofness.

"Then you acknowledge it?" shot in Orde quick as a flash.

Newmark laughed in amusement.

"Why shouldn't I? Of course Heinzman blabbed. You couldn't have
got it all anywhere else."

Orde arose to his feet, and half sat again on the arm of his chair.

"Now I'll tell you what we will do in this matter," said he crisply.

But Newmark unexpectedly took the aggressive.

"We'll follow," said he, "the original programme, as laid down by
myself. I'm tired of dealing with blundering fools. Heinzman's
mortgage will be foreclosed; and you will hand over as per the
agreement your Boom Company stock."

Orde stared at him in amazement.

"I must say you have good nerve," he said; "you don't seem to
realise that you are pretty well tangled up. I don't know what they
call it: criminal conspiracy, or something of that sort, I suppose.
So far from handing over to you the bulk of my property, I can send
you to the penitentiary."

"Nonsense," rejoined Newmark, leaning forward in his turn. "I know
you too well, Jack Orde. You're a fool of more kinds than I care to
count, and this is one of the kinds. Do you seriously mean to say
that you dare try to prosecute me? Just as sure as you do, I'll put
Heinzman in the pen too. I've got it on him, COLD. He's a bribe
giver--and somewhat of a criminal conspirator himself."

"Well," said Orde.

Newmark leaned back with an amused little chuckle. "If the man
hadn't come to you and given the whole show away, you'd have lost
every cent you owned. He did you the biggest favour in his power.
And for your benefit I'll tell you what you can easily substantiate;
I forced him into this deal with me. I had this bribery case on
him; and in addition his own affairs were all tied up."

"I knew that," replied Orde.

"What had the man to gain by telling you?" pursued Newmark.
"Nothing at all. What had he to lose? Everything: his property,
his social position, his daughter's esteem, which the old fool holds
higher than any of them. You could put me in the pen, perhaps--with
Heinzman's testimony. But the minute Heinzman appears on the stand,
I'll land him high and dry and gasping, without a chance to flop."

He paused a moment to puff at his cigar. Finding it had gone out,
he laid the butt carefully on the ash tray at his elbow.

"I'm not much used to giving advice," he went on, "least of all when
it is at all likely to be taken. But I'll offer you some. Throw
Heinzman over. Let him go to the pen. He's been crooked, and a
fool."

"That's what you'd do, I suppose," said Orde.

"Exactly that. You owe nothing to Heinzman; but something to what
you would probably call repentance, but which is in reality a
mawkish sentimentality of weakness. However, I know you, Jack Orde,
from top to bottom; and I know you're fool enough not to do it. I'm
so sure of it that I dare put it to you straight; you could never
bring yourself to the point of destroying a man who had sacrificed
himself for you."

"You seem to have this game all figured out," said Orde with
contempt.

Newmark leaned back in his chair. Two bright red spots burned in
his ordinarily sallow cheeks. He half closed his eyes.

"You're right," said he with an ill-concealed satisfaction. "If you
play a game, play it through. Each man is different; for each a
different treatment is required. The game is infinite, wonderful,
fascinating to the skilful." He opened his eyes and looked over at
Orde with a mild curiosity. "I suppose men are about all of one
kind to you."

"Two," said Orde grimly; "the honest men and the scoundrels."

"Well," said the other, "let's settle this thing. The fact remains
that the firm owes a note to Heinzman, which it cannot pay. You owe
a note to the firm which you cannot pay. All this may be slightly
irregular; but for private reasons you do not care to make public
the irregularity. Am I right so far?"

Orde, who had been watching him with a slightly sardonic smile,
nodded.

"Well, what I want out of this--"

"You might hear the other side," interrupted Orde. "In the first
place," said he, producing a bundle of papers, "I have the note and
the mortgage in my possession."

"Whence Heinzman will shortly rescue them, as soon as I get to see
him," countered Newmark. "You acknowledge that I can force
Heinzman; and you can hardly refuse him."

"If you force Heinzman, he'll land you," Orde pointed out.

"There is Canada for me, with no extradition. He travels with
heavier baggage. I have the better trumps."

"You'd lose everything."

"Not quite," smiled Newmark. "And, as usual, you are forgetting the
personal equation. Heinzman is--Heinzman. And I am I."

"Then I suppose this affidavit from Heinzman as to the details of
all this is useless for the same reason?"

Newmark's thin lips parted in another smile.

"Correct," said he.

"But you're ready to compromise below the face of the note?"

"I am."

"Why?"

Newmark hesitated.

"I'll tell you," said he; "because I know you well enough to realise
that there is a point where your loyalty to Heinzman would step
aside in favour of your loyalty to your family."

"And you think you know where that point is?"

"It's the basis of my compromise."

Orde began softly to laugh. "Newmark, you're as clever as the
devil," said he. "But aren't you afraid to lay out your cards this
way?"

"Not with you," replied Newmark, boldly; "with anybody else on
earth, yes. With you, no."

Orde continued to laugh, still in the low undertone.

"The worst of it is, I believe you're right," said he at last. "You
have the thing sized up; and there isn't a flaw in your reasoning.
I always said that you were the brains of this concern. If it were
not for one thing, I'd compromise sure; and that one thing was
beyond your power to foresee."

He paused. Newisark's eyes half-closed again, in a quick d'arting
effort of his brain to run back over all the elements of the game he
was playing. Orde waited in patience for him to speak.

"What is it?" asked Newmark at last. "Heinzman died of smallpox at
four o'clock this afternoon," said Orde.

XLVIII

Newmark did not alter his attitude nor his expression, but his face
slowly went gray. For a full minute he sat absolutely motionless,
his breath coming and going noisily through his contracted nostrils.
Then he arose gropingly to his feet, and started toward one of the
two doors leading from the room.

"Where are you going?" asked Orde quietly.

Newmark steadied himself with an effort.

"I'm going to get myself a drink in my bedroom," he snapped. "Any
objections?"

"No," replied Orde. "None. After you get your drink, come back. I
want to talk to you."

Newmark snarled at him: "You needn't be afraid I'll run away. How'd
I get out of town?"

"I know it wouldn't pay you to run away," said Orde.

Newmark passed out through the door. Orde looked thoughtfully at
Heinzman's affidavit, which, duly disinfected, had been handed him
by Dr. McMullen as important; and thrust it and the other papers
into his inside pocket. Then he arose to his feet and glided softly
across the room to take a position close to the door through which
Newmark had departed in quest of his drink. For a half minute he
waited. Finally the door swung briskly inward. Like a panther, as
quickly and as noiselessly, Orde sprang forward. A short but
decisive struggle ensued. In less than ten seconds Orde had
pinioned Newmark's arms to his side where he held them immovable
with one of his own. The other hand he ran down Newmark's right arm
to the pocket. There followed an instant of silent resistance.
Then with a sharp cry of mingled anger and pain Newmark snatched his
hand out and gazed a trifle amazedly at the half crushed fingers.
Orde drew forth the revolver Newmark had grasped concealed in the
coat pocket.

Without hesitation he closed and locked the bedroom door; turned the
key in the lock of the other; tried and fastened the window. The
revolver he opened; spilled out the cartridges into his hand; and
then tossed the empty weapon to Newmark, who had sunk into the chair
by the lamp.

"There's your plaything," said he. "So you wanted that affidavit,
did you? Now we have the place to ourselves; and we'll thresh this
matter out."

He paused, collecting his thoughts.

"I don't need to tell you that I've got you about where you live,"
said he finally. "Nor what I think of you. The case is open and
shut; and I can send you over the road for the best part of your
natural days. Also I've got these notes and the mortgage."

"Quit it," growled Newmark, "you've got me. Send me up; and be
damned."

"That's the question," went on Orde slowly. "I've been at it three
days, without much time off for sleep. You hurt me pretty bad, Joe.
I trusted you; and I thought of you as a friend."

Newmark stirred slightly with impatience.

"I had a hard time getting over that part of it; and about three-
quarters of what was left in the world looked mighty like ashes for
awhile. Then I began to see this thing a little clearer. We've
been together a good many years now; and as near as I can make out
you've been straight as a string with me for eight of them. Then I
suppose the chance came and before you knew it you were in over your
neck."

He looked, half-pleading toward Newmark. Newmark made no sign.

"I know that's the way it might be. A man thinks he's mighty brave;
and so he is, as long as he can see what's coming, and get ready for
it. But some day an emergency just comes up and touches him on the
shoulder, and he turns around and sees it all of a sudden. Then he
finds he's a coward. It's pretty hard for me to understand
dishonesty, or how a man can be dishonest. I've tried, but I can't
do it. Crookedness isn't my particular kind of fault. But I do
know this: that we every one of us have something to be forgiven for
by some one. I guess I've got a temper that makes me pretty sorry
sometimes. Probably you don't see how it's possible for a man to
get crazy mad about little things. That isn't your particular kind
of fault."

"Oh, for God's sake, drop that preaching. It makes me sick!" broke
out Newmark.

Orde smiled whimsically.

"I'm not preaching," he said; "and even if I were, I've paid a good
many thousands of dollars, it seems, to buy the right to say what I
damn please. And if you think I'm working up to a Christian
forgiveness racket, you're very much mistaken. I'm not. I don't
forgive you; and I surely despise your sort. But I'm explaining to
you--no, to myself--just what I've been at for three days."

"Well, turn me over to your sheriff, and let's get through with
this," said Newmark sullenly. "I suppose you've got that part of it
all fixed."

Orde rose.

"Look here, Newmark, that's just what I've been coming to, just what
I've had such a hard time to get hold of. I felt it, but I couldn't
put my finger on it. Now I know. I'm not going to hand you over to
any sheriff; I'm going to let you off. No," he continued, in
response to Newmark's look of incredulous amazement, "it isn't from
any fool notion of forgiveness. I told you I didn't forgive you.
But I'm not going to burden my future life with you. That's just
plain, ordinary selfishness. I suppose I really ought to jug you;
but if I do, I'll always carry with me the thought that I've taken
it on myself to judge a man. And I don't believe any man is
competent to judge another. I told you why--or tried to--a minute
or so ago. I've lived clean, and I've enjoyed the world as a clean
open-air sort of proposition--like a windy day--and I always hope
to. I'd rather drop this whole matter. In a short time I'd forget
you; you'd pass out of my life entirely. But if we carry this thing
through to a finish, I'd always have the thought with me that I'd
put you in the pen; that you are there now. I don't like the
notion. I'd rather finish this up right here and now and get it
over and done with and take a fresh start." He paused and wiped his
brow, wet with the unusual exertion of this self-analysis. "I think
a fellow ought to act always as if he was making the world. He
ought to try not to put things in it that are going to make it an
unpleasant or an evil world. We don't always do it; but we ought to
try. Now if I were making a world, I wouldn't put a man in a
penitentiary in it. Of course there's dangerous criminals." He
glanced at Newmark a little anxiously. "I don't belieye you're
that. You're sharp and dishonest, and need punishment; but you
don't need extinction. Anyway, I'm not going to bother my future
with you."

Newmark, who had listened to this long and rambling exposition with
increasing curiosity and interest, broke into a short laugh.

"You've convicted me," he said. "I'm a most awful failure. I
thought I knew you; but this passes all belief."

Orde brushed this speech aside as irrelevant.

"Our association, of course, comes to an end. There remain the
terms of settlement. I could fire you out of this without a cent,
and you'd have to git. But that wouldn't be fair. I don't give a
damn for you; but it wouldn't be fair to me. Now as for the
Northern Peninsula timber, you have had seventy-five thousand out of
that and have lent me the same amount. Call that quits. I will
take up your note when it comes due; and destroy the one given to
Heinzman. For all your holdings in our common business I will give
you my note without interest and without time for one hundred
thousand dollars. That is not its face value, nor anything like it,
but you have caused me directly and indirectly considerable loss. I
don't know how soon I can pay this note; but it will be paid."

"All right," agreed Newmark.

"Does that satisfy you?"

"I suppose it's got to."

"Very well. I have the papers here all made out. They need simply
to be signed and witnessed. Timbull is the nearest notary."

He unlocked the outside door.

"Come," said he.

In silence the two walked the block and a half to the notary's
house. Here they were forced to wait some time while Timbull
dressed himself and called the necessary witnesses. Finally the
papers were executed. In the street Newmark paused significantly.
But Orde did not take the hint.

"Are you coming with me?" asked Newmark.

"I am," replied Orde. "There is one thing more."

In silence once more they returned to the shadowy low library filled
with its evidences of good taste. Newmark threw himself into the
armchair. He was quite recovered, once again the imperturbable,
coldly calculating, cynical observer. Orde relocked the door, and
turned to face him.

"You have five days to leave town," he said crisply. "Don't ever
show up here again. Let me have your address for the payment of
this note."

He took two steps forward.

"I've let you off from the pen because I didn't want my life
bothered with the thought of you. But you've treated me like a
hound. I've been loyal to the firm's interests from the start; and
I've done my best by it. You knifed me in the back. You're a
dirty, low-lived skunk. If you think you're going to get off scot-
free, you're mightily mistaken."

He advanced two steps more. Newmark half arose.

"What do you mean?" he asked in some alarm.

"I mean that I'm going to give you about the worst licking you ever
heard TELL of," replied Orde, buttoning his coat.

XLIX

Five minutes later Orde emerged from Newmark's house, softly rubbing
the palm of one hand over the knuckles of the other. At the front
gate he paused to look up at the stars. Then he shut it decisively
behind him.

Up through the maple shaded streets he walked at a brisk pace,
breathing deep, unconsciously squaring back his shoulders. The
incident was behind him. In his characteristic decisive manner he
had wiped the whole disagreeable affair off the slate. The
copartnership with its gains and losses, its struggles and easy
sailing was a thing of the past. Only there remained, as after a
flood the sediment, a final result of it all, the balance between
successes and failures, a ground beneath the feet of new
aspirations. Orde had the Northern Peninsula timber; the Boom
Company; and the carrying trade. They were all burdened with debt,
it is true, but the riverman felt surging within him the reawakened
and powerful energy for which optimism is another name. He saw
stretching before him a long life of endeavour, the sort of
endeavour he enjoyed, exulted in; and in it he would be untrammelled
and alone. The idea appealed to him. Suddenly he was impatient for
the morrow that he might begin.

He turned out of the side street. His own house lay before him,
dark save for the gas jet in the hallway and the single lamp in the
library. A harmony of softly touched chords breathed out through
the open window. He stopped; then stole forward softly until he
stood looking in through the doorway.

Carroll sat leaning against the golden harp, her shining head with
the soft shadows bent until it almost touched the strings. Her
hands were straying idly over accustomed chords and rich
modulations, the plaintive half-music of reverie. A soft light fell
on her slender figure; half revealed the oval of her cheek and the
sweep of her lashes.

Orde crept to her unheard. Gently he clasped her from behind.
Unsurprised she relinquished the harp strings and sank back against
his breast with a happy little sigh.

"Kind of fun being married, isn't it, sweetheart?" he repeated their
quaint formula.

"Kind of," she replied; and raised her face to his.

THE END

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