CHAPTER XXVII.

THE LISTENER IN THE GROVE.

It is hard to tell which was the more astonished by this unexpected encounter—the father, who having been aroused from uneasy slumber by the stealthy closing of his bedroom door, and growing alarmed for the safety of the large amount of money in his possession, had aroused himself and come into the office to make sure that everything was right there, or the son, who had so suddenly been interrupted in the very act of robbing the safe.

The two looked at each other for a moment in silence, and then Arthur put back the package of greenbacks he had been on the point of stowing away in his valise, while Uncle Bob placed the lamp on the table and sat down.

“Arthur, what in the world does this mean?” said he, sternly.

“It means that if you hadn’t come in here just as you did, I should have been miles on my way toward Dixon Springs by this time to-morrow,” replied the son, rising to his feet and boldly confronting his father.

“And did you intend to rob me?”

“I certainly intended to take some of this money to help me along,” answered Arthur, without the least tremor in his tones. “I asked you for it this morning, openly and above board, and you wouldn’t let me have it, saying, as an excuse for your refusal, that you were ‘afraid that the herdsmen would do something to me if I attempted to leave the valley so soon after Bob’s disappearance.’”

“And I tell you so now,” said his father.

“Didn’t I assure you that I was willing to take all the risk?” demanded Arthur.

“And didn’t I tell you, in effect, that if you would only be governed by me and consent to stay here until this thing had time to blow over, it would then be perfectly safe for both of us to go East?” asked his father, in reply. “I am as anxious to see the last of Arizona as you are. I had a long talk with Mr. Jacobs about it yesterday, and decided to employ him to manage the ranch for me, while you and I would go back to Bolton to live. I should have told you about it as soon as I came home, if you had shown any disposition to talk to me.”

“Why don’t you go at once?” growled Arthur.

“I have already given you my reason. I think I ought to stay here for a few months, at least; and Mr. Jacobs thinks so, too.”

“Well, then, won’t you give me some money and let me go?”

“I answered that question yesterday,” said Uncle Bob, in very decided tones. “Have you got any money in that valise? Then put it back where it belongs, and we will go back to bed.”

Knowing that his hopeful son could not be trusted, Uncle Bob took the precaution to see that these instructions were obeyed to the very letter.

He took his stand beside the open valise, and closely watched Arthur, as he took the packages out of it and piled them on the shelf. Then he closed and locked the safe and took possession of the key, telling himself the while that Arthur would never be able to get his hands upon it again.

The two did not speak as Uncle Bob took up the lamp and revolver and led the way to their room.

He did not appear to be angry, either; but Arthur was almost beside himself with fury. He was more—he was desperate. There was still one plan to be tried, and, if that failed, it was all over with him and Uncle Bob.

“Perhaps, when it is too late, he will wish he had let me have that money,” thought Arthur, as he tumbled into bed and turned his face to the wall. “His excuse for refusing me is a very flimsy one. He’s got Bob’s money, and I believe he would rather risk his life than lose his grip on a single dollar of it.”

Arthur slept in spite of the exciting scene through which he had passed, but his slumber was disturbed with frightful dreams, in which the angry herdsmen and Bob Howard’s broken oar, which, in some mysterious way, was brought forward as evidence against him, bore prominent parts.

His father greeted him in the morning as cordially as he always did, but Arthur was too angry and sulky to be civil. He ate but little breakfast, and as soon as he arose from the table he went to the grove to keep his appointment with Sam.

He would have been glad to postpone the interview indefinitely, but he was afraid to do it. He believed that Sam would have something to say to his father, now, and, before he did that, Arthur wanted to make a few suggestions.

He found the herdsman in the grove, waiting for him. It is probable that he fully expected to receive the money he had demanded for holding his tongue; for, when he saw Arthur approaching, he advanced to meet him, at the same time extending his hand, as if he thought the latter was going to put something into it.

“I haven’t got it,” said Arthur, shortly.

Sam scowled fiercely, and looked mad enough to do almost anything.

“I can’t help it,” continued Arthur, “I did the best I could for you. I asked my father for it yesterday, as I told you I would, but he wouldn’t give it to me; and last night I tried to take it out of the safe, but he caught me at it.”

“Whew!” whistled Sam.

“It’s a fact,” said Arthur earnestly. “I’ve tried every plan I can think of, and can do nothing more.”

“What did you say you wanted to do with the money?”

“I told him that I wanted to go back East, but father said he was afraid that if I attempted to leave the ranch now, I would get myself into trouble with the herdsmen.”

“Very likely you would,” replied Sam, indifferently. “I talked with some of them yesterday, and, although they don’t know that you had any hand in sawing the oars—”

“And I didn’t, either,” interrupted Arthur. “You sawed them yourself, and I never knew a thing about it.”

“Look here, young man,” exclaimed Sam, in a tone of voice that frightened Arthur, “you needn’t try to throw all the responsibility upon my shoulders, for I won’t stand it! You are just as much to blame for what happened to Bob Howard and his partner as I am!”

“Didn’t you propose it?” faltered Arthur.

“Didn’t you consent to it?” retorted Sam, looking at Arthur so savagely that the latter dared not deny the accusation. “You did! and if the boys ever find it out, they will make things hot for you, I tell you.”

“But of course you will not tell them,” implored Arthur.

“If I can get my five thousand dollars, no. If I can’t, yes. I suppose I shall have to talk to the old man now.”

“I don’t see what else you can do,” assented Arthur. “But I say, Sam, don’t mention my name to him, will you? Just tell him that the boys suspect that _he_ knows how Bob’s oar was broken, and that will frighten him so that he will hand the money over to you without saying a word.”

“That’s worth thinking of,” admitted Sam.

“If you want money to keep still about this thing, that is the only way to get it,” declared Arthur. “I can’t raise it for you, and that’s all there is about it. I have tried and failed.”

“Well, I shan’t fail,” said Sam, emphatically. “If I do, the old man may make up his mind that something disagreeable is going to happen. I’ll sleep on what you have told me, and perhaps I shall be down again to-morrow morning. Good-by!”

“But, Sam, promise that you will not even hint that I know how Bob’s oar was broken,” begged Arthur.

“All right!” answered the herdsman.

But he did not give the promise. The time might come, he told himself, when the youth would be of use to him, and he thought it best to retain a hold upon him.

“I’ve done it,” soliloquized Arthur, as he once more began his aimless wanderings about the grove, “and now we shall see what will come of it. It was the only course that was left open to me, for I could see very plainly that Sam is fully determined to make trouble, unless his demands are complied with. I hope he will frighten father so badly that he will pack up and leave for Bolton at once.”

Arthur was so deeply engrossed with his meditations that he did not hear the slight rustling in the thicket behind him, which was made by a man—an unintentional listener to the conversation that had taken place between himself and Sam—as he arose from a log on which he had been sitting, and shook both his fists in the air. It was old Ike, the cook.

He was the first man who had found employment on the ranch, and, like the rest of the hired help, he thought everything of Bob, and looked with distrust upon those who had come there to take his dead father’s place.

Leaving an assistant to attend to his duties in the kitchen, Ike retreated to the grove shortly after the boat went into the canyon, and he had been there ever since. He liked to be there. It had been the lost boy’s favorite resort, and, while he was hidden among the trees, he could give full vent to his sorrow, for there was no one looking on to accuse him of a lack of manhood.

Ike peeped cautiously through the bushes to see where Arthur was, and then he shook his fists at him, and moved away from his place of concealment with long, noiseless strides.

He walked with that firm, determined step that men sometimes adopt when they have made up their minds to do something; but, when he reached the porch, he came to a sudden stop, pulled off his hat, and scratched his head vigorously.

The operation must have put new ideas into his mind, for he went on around the house, and made his way to the corral in which the riding-horses were kept.

Putting a saddle and bridle on the first horse he caught, he forded the river at the place where the lake emptied into it, and as soon as he reached the opposite bank, he started on a gallop for Mr. Evans’ ranch.

“So _that’s_ the way my poor Bob come to go into that awful hole, is it?” said Ike, speaking in a loud voice, as if he were addressing some one at a distance. “Sam sawed the oars so that they would break when the boys laid out their strength on them—he did it because he knew that Bob didn’t want him on the ranch, most likely—and that scoundrel, Arthur, knew all about it, and never said a word. Of course, he didn’t, for he wanted his cousin’s money. I knew them two would make trouble sooner or later, but I didn’t think they would be at it for a while yet.”

It was a strange and startling story that Ike had to tell when he reached Mr. Evans’ ranch.

That gentleman listened calmly, and the narrator noticed that he did not seem to be at all surprised at what he heard. He, too, had been expecting trouble, but he had not looked for it so soon.

“When I saw that Bob’s oar was broken, I told Jacobs that I would give anything for a chance to examine it,” said Mr. Evans, when Ike finished his story. “It was made on purpose to stand that current, and I knew the boy could not have broken it unless it had been tampered with.”

“Well, them are the facts of the case, Mr. Evans, just as I have been telling ’em to you,” said Ike. “Will you come down and boss the hanging?”

“I will come down immediately; but there will be no hanging—no violence whatever. Do you understand me?” replied Mr. Evans, quietly, but firmly.

Old Ike was profoundly astonished.

“Do you mean to say that we honest men have got to live in the same valley with them rascals?” he demanded, fiercely. “I won’t do it, and that’s flat!”

“I don’t mean to say anything of the kind. Their presence will not trouble you after to-day. Leave everything to me, and don’t lisp one word to any of the boys about what you heard in the grove. You will only make trouble if you do.”

Ike was too angry to reply. He wheeled his horse and rode rapidly away, while Mr. Evans stood gazing after him with a face that was full of apprehension.