Burning Daylight

BURNING DAYLIGHT

want to ride. There’s nothing wrong in that. Anybody borrows a horse from anybody, you know.”

Agin he saw refusal, and headed her off.

“Lots of men take women buggy-riding. There’s nothing wrong in that. And the man always furnishes the horse and buggy. Well, now, what’s the difference between my taking you buggy-riding and furnishing the horse and buggy, and taking you horse-back-riding and furnishing the horses?”

She shook her head, and declined to answer, at the same time looking at the door as if to intimate that it was time for this unbusinesslike conversation to end. He made one more effort.

“Do you know, Miss Mason, I haven’t a friend in the world outside you? I mean a real friend, man or woman, the kind you chum with, you know, and that you’re glad to be with and sorry to be away from. Hegan is the nearest man I get to, and he’s a million miles away from me. Outside business, we don’t hitch. He’s got a big library of books, and some crazy kind of culture, and he spends all his off times reading things in French and German and other outlandish lingoes – when he ain’t writing plays and poetry. There’s nobody I feel chummy with except you, and you know how little we’ve chummed – once a week, if it didn’t rain, on Sunday. I’ve grown kind of to depend on you. You’re a sort of – of – of – “

“A sort of habit,” she said with a smile.

“That’s about it. And that mare, and you astride of her, coming along the road under the trees or through the sunshine – why, with both you and the mare missing, there won’t

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be anything worth waiting through the week for. If you’d just let me buy her back – “

“No, no; I tell you no.” Dede rose impatiently, but her eyes were moist with the memory of her pet. “Please don’t mention her to me again. If you think it was easy to part with her, you are mistaken. But I’ve seen the last of her, and I want to forget her.”

Daylight made no answer, and the door closed behind him. Half an hour later he was conferring with Jones, the erstwhile elevator boy and rabid proletarian whom Daylight long before had grubstaked to literature for a year. The resulting novel had been a failure. Editors and publishers would not look at it, and now Daylight was using the disgruntled author in a little private secret service system he had been compelled to establish for himself. Jones, who affected to be surprised at nothing after his crushing experience with railroad freight rates on firewood and charcoal, betrayed no surprise now when the task was given to him to locate the purchaser of

a certain sorrel mare.

“How high shall I pay for her?” he asked.

“Any price. You’ve got to get her, that’s the point. Drive a sharp bargain so as not to excite suspicion, but buy her. Then you deliver her to that address up in Sonoma County. The man’s the caretaker on a little ranch I have there. Tell him he’s to take whacking good care of her. And after that forget all about it. Don’t tell me the name of the man you buy her from. Don’t tell me anything about it except that you’ve got her and delivered her. Savvee?”

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But the week had not passed, when Daylight noted the flash in Dede’s eyes that boded trouble.

“Something’s gone wrong – what is it?” he asked boldly. “Mab,” she said. “The man who bought her has sold her

already. If I thought you had anything to do with it – “

“I don’t even know who you sold her to,” was Daylight’s answer. “And what’s more, I’m not bothering my head about her. She was your mare, and it’s none of my business what you did with her. You haven’t got her, that’s sure and worse luck. And now, while we’re on touchy subjects, I’m going to open another one with you. And you needn’t get touchy about it, for it’s not really your business at all.”

She waited in the pause that followed, eyeing him almost suspiciously.

“It’s about that brother of yours. He needs more than you can do for him. Selling that mare of yours won’t send him to Germany. And that’s what his own doctors say he needs – that crack German specialist who rips a man’s bones and muscles into pulp and then molds them all over again. Well, I want to send him to Germany and give that crack a flutter, that’s all.”

“If it were only possible” she said, half breathlessly, and wholly without anger. “Only it isn’t, and you know it isn’t. I can’t accept money from you – “

“Hold on, now,” he interrupted. “Wouldn’t you accept a drink of water from one of the Twelve Apostles if you was dying of thirst? Or would you be afraid of his evil intentions” – she made a gesture of dissent “ – or of what folks might say about it?”

“But that’s different,” she began.

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“Now look here, Miss Mason. You’ve got to get some foolish notions out of your head. This money notion is one of the funniest things I’ve seen. Suppose you was falling over a cliff, wouldn’t it be all right for me to reach out and hold you by the arm? Sure it would. But suppose you needed another sort of help – instead of the strength of arm, the strength of my pocket? That would be all and that’s what they all say. But why do they say it. Because the robber gangs want all the suckers to be honest and respect money. If the suckers weren’t honest and didn’t respect money, where would the robbers be? Don’t you see? The robbers don’t deal in arm-holds; they deal in dollars. Therefore arm-holds are just common and ordinary, while dollars are sacred – so sacred that you didn’t let me lend you a hand with a few.

“Or here’s another way,” he continued, spurred on by her mute protest. “It’s all right for me to give the strength of my arm when you’re falling over a cliff. But if I take that same strength of arm and use it at pick-and-shovel work for a day and earn two dollars, you won’t have anything to do with the two dollars. Yet it’s the same old strength of arm in a new form, that’s all. Besides, in this proposition it won’t be a claim on you. It ain’t even a loan to you. It’s an arm-hold I’m giving your brother – just the same sort of arm-hold as if he was falling over a cliff. And a nice one you are, to come running out and yell ‘Stop!’ at me, and let your brother go on over the cliff. What he needs to save his legs is that crack in Germany, and that’s the arm-hold I’m offering.

“Wish you could see my rooms. Walls all decorated with horsehair bridles – scores of them – hundreds of them. They’re

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no use to me, and they cost like Sam Scratch. But there’s a lot of convicts making them, and I go on buying. Why, I’ve spent more money in a single night on whiskey than would get the best specialists and pay all the expenses of a dozen cases like your brother’s. And remember, you’ve got nothing to do with this. If your brother wants to look on it as a loan, all right. It’s up to him, and you’ve got to stand out of the way while I pull him back from that cliff.”

Still Dede refused, and Daylight’s argument took a more painful turn.

“I can only guess that you’re standing in your brother’s way on account of some mistaken idea in your head that this is my idea of courting. Well, it ain’t. You might as well think I’m courting all those convicts I buy bridles from. I haven’t asked you to marry me, and if I do I won’t come trying to buy you into consenting. And there won’t be anything underhand when I come a-asking.”

Dede’s face was flushed and angry. “If you knew how ridiculous you are, you’d stop,” she blurted out. “You can make me more uncomfortable than any man I ever knew. Every little while you give me to understand that you haven’t asked me to marry you yet. I’m not waiting to be asked, and I warned you from the first that you had no chance. And yet you hold it over my head that some time, some day, you’re going to ask me to marry you. Go ahead and ask me now, and get your answer and get it over and done with.”

He looked at her in honest and pondering admiration. “I want you so bad, Miss Mason, that I don’t dast to ask you now,” he said, with such whimsicality and earnestness as to make her

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CHAPTER XVIII

Daylight had been wholly truthful when he told Dede that he had no real friends. On speaking terms with thousands, on fellowship and drinking terms with hundreds, he was a lonely man. He failed to find the one man, or group of several men, with whom he could be really intimate. Cities did not make for comradeship as did the Alaskan trail. Besides, the types of men were different. Scornful and contemptuous of business men on the one hand, on the other his relations with the San Francisco bosses had been more an alliance of expediency than anything else. He had felt more of kinship for the franker brutality of the bosses and their captains, but they had failed to claim any deep respect. They were too prone to crookedness. Bonds were better than men’s word in this modern world, and one had to look carefully to the bonds.

In the old Yukon days it had been different. Bonds didn’t go. A man said he had so much, and even in a poker game his appeasement was accepted.

Larry Hegan, who rose ably to the largest demands of Daylight’s operations and who had few illusions and less hypocrisy, might have proved a chum had it not been for his temperamental twist. Strange genius that he was, a Napoleon of the law, with a power of visioning that far exceeded Daylight’s, he had nothing in common with Daylight outside the office. He

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spent his time with books, a thing Daylight could not abide. Also, he devoted himself to the endless writing of plays which never got beyond manuscript form, and, though Daylight only sensed the secret taint of it, was a confirmed but temperate eater of hasheesh. Hegan lived all his life cloistered with books in a world of agitation. With the out-of-door world he had no understanding nor tolerance. In food and drink he was abstemious as a monk, while exercise was a thing abhorrent. Daylight’s friendships, in lieu of anything closer, were drinking friendships and roistering friendships. And with the passing of the Sunday rides with Dede, he fell back more and more upon these for diversion. The cocktail wall of inhibition he reared more assiduously than ever.

The big red motor-car was out more frequently now, while a stable hand was hired to give Bob exercise. In his early San Francisco days, there had been intervals of easement between his deals, but in this present biggest deal of all the strain was unremitting. Not in a month, or two, or three, could his huge land investment be carried to a successful consummation. And so complete and wide-reaching was it that complications and knotty situations constantly arose. Every day brought its problems, and when he had solved them in his masterful way, he left the office in his big car, almost sighing with relief at anticipation of the approaching double Martini. Rarely was he made tipsy. His constitution was too strong for that. Instead, he was that direst of all drinkers, the steady drinker, deliberate and controlled, who averaged a far higher quantity of alcohol than the irregular and violent drinker. For six weeks hard-running he had seen nothing of Dede except in the office, and there

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he resolutely refrained from making approaches. But by the seventh Sunday his hunger for her overmastered him. It was a stormy day.

A heavy southeast gale was blowing, and squall after squall of rain and wind swept over the city. He could not take his mind off of her, and a persistent picture came to him of her sitting by a window and sewing feminine fripperies of some sort. When the time came for his first pre-luncheon cocktail to be served to him in his rooms, he did not take it.

Filled with a daring determination, he glanced at his note book for Dede’s telephone number, and called for the switch.

At first it was her landlady’s daughter who was raised, but in a minute he heard the voice he had been hungry to hear.

“I just wanted to tell you that I’m coming out to see you,” he said. “I didn’t want to break in on you without warning, that was all.”

“Has something happened?” came her voice. “I’ll tell you when I get there,” he evaded.

He left the red car two blocks away and arrived on foot at the pretty, three-storied, shingled Berkeley house. For an instant only, he was aware of an inward hesitancy, but the next moment he rang the bell. He knew that what he was doing was in direct violation of her wishes, and that he was setting her a difficult task to receive as a Sunday caller the multimillionaire and notorious Elam Harnish of newspaper fame. On the other hand, the one thing he did not expect of her was what he would have termed “silly female capers.”

And in this he was not disappointed.

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She came herself to the door to receive him and shake hands with him. He hung his mackintosh and hat on the rack in the comfortable square hall and turned to her for direction.

“They are busy in there,” she said, indicating the parlor from which came the boisterous voices of young people, and through the open door of which he could see several college youths. “So you will have to come into my rooms.”

She led the way through the door opening out of the hall to the right, and, once inside, he stood awkwardly rooted to the floor, gazing about him and at her and all the time trying not to gaze. In his perturbation he failed to hear and see her invitation to a seat. So these were her quarters. The intimacy of it and her making no fuss about it was startling, but it was no more than he would have expected of her. It was almost two rooms in one, the one he was in evidently the sitting-room, and the one he could see into, the bedroom. Beyond an oaken dressing-table, with an orderly litter of combs and brushes and dainty feminine knickknacks, there was no sign of its being used as a bedroom. The broad couch, with a cover of old rose and banked high with cushions, he decided must be the bed, but it was farthest from any experience of a civilized bed he had ever had.

Not that he saw much of detail in that awkward moment of standing. His general impression was one of warmth and comfort and beauty. There were no carpets, and on the hardwood floor he caught a glimpse of several wolf and coyote skins. What captured and perceptibly held his eye for a moment was a Crouched Venus that stood on a Steinway upright against a background of mountain-lion skin on the wall.

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