When Flint led him up to the tunnel, the red horse pulled back a little, but after some coaxing, came on and followed Flint through the passage.
Once outside the lava beds, Flint mounted again and started north for McCartys, the small station east of Alamitos. The stallion stepped out fast, ears pricked and attentive.
Only two horses were tied at the tiny hitching rail before the saloon, and Flint rode directly to the station.
Tying the stallion there, he looked around carefully. There was nobody in sight. He stepped into the station, a small room with a pot-bellied sheet-iron stove. Behind a half partition the telegrapher sat tipped back in his chair, reading a newspaper.
There was paper on the counter. He wrote a quick message to his Baltimore attorney. He followed it with three others, to the president of the railroad in which he was a principal stockholder, to Burroughs, and to an official of the railroad whom he himself had arranged to appoint.
The telegrapher took the messages, read them, and then looked up at Flint. He looked again at the name “Kettleman” signed to the messages. “What is this? Some kind of a joke?”
“It is not. Send those messages and send them now.”
The telegrapher still hesitated, glancing from Flint’s rough cow-country clothing to the messages. He touched his tongue to his lips. “Mister, you may be crazy for all I know. A man just doesn’t come off the range and start sending telegrams like these, why it would be as much as my job is worth if …”
“If you don’t get those wires off, and fast, you won’t have any job. You’ll be walking down the track wondering what hit you.”
The telegrapher sat down behind his key. “And when you start sending, remember that I can read Morse as well as you can.”
The telegrapher scratched his long jaw, and after a hesitant beginning, began to tap out the messages. After the first one there was a flurry of sending and then the telegrapher looked up. “The dispatcher down the line says you got to — ”
“I heard him. Here is the identification.”
The telegrapher glanced at the papers and then hurried back to his key.
Flint waited, smoking a cigar, while the messages were sent. All hell would break loose now. He had started the action to revoke Baldwin’s right to represent the railroad in land deals of any sort at all, and with the voting power he had, he could make it stick. Once Baldwin was aware of what had been done, he would be out for blood.
Flint got into the saddle and turned the red horse down the road toward Alamitos, starting off at a fast trot.
No sooner was he out of sight than the telegrapher ran across the street to the saloon.
The two riders loafing at the bar, Saxon and Strett, were Baldwin men. The telegrapher, whose name was Haskins, did not like the riders. Earlier, they had given him a bad time and, no hand with a gun, he had pretended to ignore their ribald remarks.
Haskins stepped up to the bar. “Rye,” he said. Then, winking at the bartender, he said, “You better enjoy yourselves while you can. You’ll be riding the grub line in a week.”
They turned on him. “What’s that mean?”
“A wire just went through,” Haskins said, enjoying himself, “that will revoke Baldwin’s right to represent the railroad. Another wire went to a lawyer who is going to start an inquiry in Washington.”
“Aah, don’t give me that!”
“Wait a minute, Saxon,” the other rider interrupted, “who sent those wires?”
“A man named Kettleman,” Haskins said cheerfully. “James T. Kettleman!” He tossed the newspaper on the bar in front of them. On the left side of the page was a news story: FINANCIER VANISHES!
The second rider read it slowly, brow puckered. “Come on,” he said suddenly, “Baldwin will want to know this.”
“Hey!” Haskins yelled. “Gimme back my paper!”
“Go to hell!” Saxon said over his shoulder.
“Now if that’s true,” the bartender said, “it’s going to play hob. Every train is loaded with land-hungry folks. They ain’t gonna like this.”
“I like it,” Haskins said grimly. “You can’t make me believe any honest man would have that bunch of riffraff working for him. This will be a good country when all that crowd is run out of it.”
“Who will run them?” the bartender asked calmly. “Some of them will take a sight of running, seems to me.”
Neither of the two Baldwin men had seen Flint, and had no reason to connect him with the telegrams. They went by him, running their horses, and he could guess what message they carried.
He rode swiftly into town and went to the office of the judge, who had refused Baldwin an order to arrest Flint.
Swinging down, he went inside. The judge recognized him at once. The mottled blue and yellow of old bruises was still on him, and there was a scarcely healed scar showing through the hair on the side of his head, below his hatbrim.
“I want to get an injunction to stop Porter Baldwin from selling any more land.”
Judge Hatfield tipped back in his swivel chair and looked at Flint with shrewd eyes. “On what grounds?” he asked mildly.
“He does not represent the railroad in any sense, nor does he have title to any land in this area.”
“You are sure of this?”
Flint seated himself. Briefly, he surveyed the facts of Baldwin’s arrival in the vicinity and what had followed, most of which he was sure the judge already knew. Then he covered the subject of railroad and government land and the fluid condition of all land deals at the moment.
Knowing Baldwin, and knowing something of conditions here due to familiarity with the railroad land and right of way, as well as the study he had given to possible shippers of stock who might use the railroad, Flint was able to present a very lucid and concise outline of the situation.
“You understand, Mr. Flint,” Hatfield said finally, “that we have no sheriff here, and no town marshal.”
“If I issue the injunction it is highly probably it will, for the time at least, be ignored.”
“As you may have discovered,” Hatfield added dryly, “the letter of the law means very little out here. Conditions are fluid in more ways than one. My own presence here is due to interests in the locality although this does come within my jurisdiction.”
“I understand that, sir. The injunction would remove any shadow of legality from Baldwin’s actions. I doubt if even he would attempt to consummate a sale in face of an injunction.”
“Might I ask what is your interest in all this?”
“It’s simple enough. Porter Baldwin is making a bold attempt to push both Tom Nugent and Nancy Kerrigan off their land. They do not hold title, although both have lived upon their land for years, and have made improvements that, in the case of Miss Kerrigan, might legally constitute a title.”
“I take it your interest is in Miss Kerrigan’s ranch?”
“Yes.”
Judge Hatfield sat up. “I will see what can be done, Mr. Flint.” He got up. “You do not talk like a drifter.”
“I’m not a drifter. Nor do I have any interest here in land or titles to land … except, perhaps, in railroad land. And I can assure you that within forty-eight hours there will be a wire in Porter Baldwin’s hands, and a copy of it delivered to you, denying him any right to sell, lease, or in any way involve himself with railroad land.”
After Flint was gone, Judge Hatfield opened his newspaper again and glanced at the item on the upper left-hand corner of the page. And then he wrote out a telegram of his own to send to the capital in Santa Fe.
Jim Flint stood for a few minutes beside the big red horse, rubbing his neck and talking to him. It was time he returned to the Hole-in-the-Wall. He mounted and started away.
A half hour before, Saxon and Strett had reached Baldwin at the Grand Hotel.
Baldwin received the news with skepticism. “Kettleman here? Nonsense! It’s a trick … or a practical joke.”
Strett passed the newspaper over to Baldwin. “Take a look,” he said.
Baldwin scanned the item. Kettleman was not in New York, and his wife could not be reached for comment. Peres Chivington had, however, stated that Kettleman had not seen his wife in several weeks, and that he was dead or missing.
Baldwin swore softly and strode to the window. For a minute he stood there, chewing on his cigar.
What would bring Kettleman to New Mexico? Land? Railroads? He thought swiftly. He must get copies of those wires. Despair hit him and in its wake came fury. What right had Kettleman to come barging out here and butt in? He had money enough of his own without messing up other people’s plans. He paced the floor angrily, while the two gunmen waited.