Tangled Trails | Page 2

your ditch and our crops are burning up. Your
whole irrigation system in Dry Valley is a fake. You knew it, but we
didn't. You've skinned us out of all we had, you damned bloodsucker. If
you ever come up here we'll dry-gulch you, sure.
The letter was signed, "One You Have Robbed." Attached to it was a
clipping from a small-town paper telling of a meeting of farmers to ask
the United States District Attorney for an investigation of the Dry
Valley irrigation project promoted by James Cunningham.
The promoter smiled. He was not afraid of the Government. He had
kept strictly within the law. It was not his fault there was not enough
rainfall in the watershed to irrigate the valley. But the threat to
dry-gulch him was another matter. He had no fancy for being shot in
the back. Some crazy fool of a settler might do just that. He decided to
let an agent attend to his Dry Valley affairs hereafter. He dictated some

letters, closed his desk, and went down the street toward the City Club.
At a florist's he stopped and ordered a box of American Beauties to be
sent to Miss Phyllis Harriman. With these he enclosed his card, a line
of greeting scrawled on it.
A poker game was on at the club and Cunningham sat in. He
interrupted it to dine, holding his seat by leaving a pile of chips at the
place. When he cashed in his winnings and went downstairs it was still
early. As a card-player he was not popular. He was too keen on the
main chance and he nearly always won. In spite of his loud and
frequent laugh, of the effect of bluff geniality, there was no genuine
humor in the man, none of the milk of human kindness.
A lawyer in the reading-room rose at sight of Cunningham. "Want to
see you a minute," he said.
"Let's go into the Red Room."
He led the way to a small room furnished with a desk, writing supplies,
and a telephone. It was for the use of members who wanted to be
private. The lawyer shut the door.
"Afraid I've bad news for you, Cunningham," he said.
The other man's steady eyes did not waver. He waited silently.
"I was at Golden to-day on business connected with a divorce case. By
chance I ran across a record that astonished me. It may be only a
coincidence of names, but--"
"Now you've wrapped up the blackjack so that it won't hurt, suppose
you go ahead and hit me over the head with it," suggested Cunningham
dryly.
The lawyer told what he knew. The promoter took it with no evidence
of feeling other than that which showed in narrowed eyes hard as
diamonds and a clenched jaw in which the muscles stood out like
ropes.

"Much obliged, Foster," he said, and the lawyer knew he was
dismissed.
Cunningham paced the room for a few moments, then rang for a
messenger. He wrote a note and gave it to the boy to be delivered. Then
he left the club.
From Seventeenth Street he walked across to the Paradox Apartments
where he lived. He found a note propped up against a book on the table
of his living-room. It had been written by the Japanese servant he
shared with two other bachelors who lived in the same building.
Mr. Hull he come see you. He sorry you not here. He say maybe
perhaps make honorable call some other time.
It was signed, "S. Horikawa."
Cunningham tossed the note aside. He had no wish to see Hull. The
fellow was becoming a nuisance. If he had any complaint he could go
to the courts with it. That was what they were for.
The doorbell rang. The promoter opened to a big, barrel-bodied man
who pushed past him into the room.
"What you want, Hull?" demanded Cunningham curtly.
The man thrust his bull neck forward. A heavy roll of fat swelled over
the collar. "You know damn well what I want. I want what's comin' to
me. My share of the Dry Valley clean-up. An' I'm gonna have it. See?"
"You've had every cent you'll get. I told you that before."
Tiny red capillaries seamed the beefy face of the fat man. "An' I told
you I was gonna have a divvy. An' I am. You can't throw down Cass
Hull an' get away with it. Not none." The shallow protuberant eyes
glittered threateningly.
"Thought you knew me better," Cunningham retorted contemptuously.
"When I say I won't, I won't. Go to a lawyer if you think you've got a

case. Don't come belly-aching to me."
The face of the fat man was apoplectic. "Like sin I'll go to a lawyer.
You'd like that fine, you