Evening Republican, Volume 20, Number 136, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 June 1916 — CHAPTER XV Quicksands [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

CHAPTER XV Quicksands

A short week after the reclamation service headquarters had been moved from the log-built offices on the government reservation to the commodious and airy suite on the sixth floor of the Niquoia building Brouillard received the summons which he had been expecting ever since the night of rioting and lawlessness which had marked the close of the railroad celebration. “Mr. Cortwright would like to see you in his rooms at the Metropole,” was the message the office boy brought, and Brouillard closed his desk with a snap and followed the boy to Bongras’. The shrewd-eyed tyrant of Mirapolis was in his shirt sleeves, busily dictating to two stenographers alternately, when the engineer entered the third room of the series; but the work was suspended and the stenographers were sent away as soon as Brouillard was announced. “Well,” was the millionaire’s greeting, “you waited to be sent for, didn’t you?’ “Why not?” said Brouillard shortly. "I have my work to do and you have yours.” “And the two jobs are at opposite ends of the string, you’d say. Never mind; we can’t afford to throw each other down, and just now you cafa tell me a few things that I want iS know. How is young Massingale getting along?” ✓ , “As well as could be expected. Carruthers —the doctor —says he is out of danger.” "S “H’m. It has been handed in to me two or three times lately that the old man is out gunning for Van Bruce or for me. Amy truth in that?” “I think not. Massingale is a Kentuckian, and I fancy he is quite capa-

ble of potting either one or both of you for the attack on his son. But so tar he has done nothing—has hardly left Steve’s bedside.” Mr. J. Wesley Cortwright flung himself back in his luxurious swing chair and clasped his pudgy hands over the top of his head where the reddisn-gray hair was thinning reluctantly. “I’ve been putting it off to see which way the cat was going to Jump,” he admitted. “If young Massingale Is out of danger, it is time to get action. What was the quarrel about, between him and Van Bruce?" “It occurs to me that your son would be a better source of information," said Brouillard, evading. “Vaiv Bruce has told me all he remembers —which isn’t much, owing to his own beastly condition at the time. He says young Massingale was threatening something—something in connection with the Coronida grant—and that he got the insane idea into his head that the only way to stop the threat was by killing Massingale.” The sandy-gray eyes of the millionaire promoter were shifting while he spoke, but Brouillard fixed and held them before he said: “Why should Massingale threaten your son, Mr. Cortwright?” "I don’t know,” denied the promoter, and he said it without flinching a hair’s breadth. “Then I can tell you," was the equally steady rejoinder. "Some time ago you lent David Massingale, through the

bank, a pretty large sum of money for development expenses on the ‘Little Susan,’ taking a mortgage on everything in sight to cover the loan. But when the railroad was an assured fact he learned that the Red Butte smelters wouldn’t take his ore, giving some technical reason which he knew to be a mere excuse.” Mr. Cortwright nodded. “So far you might be reading it out of a book." “In consequence, David Massingale finds himself in a fair way to become a broken man by the simplest of pornmercial processes. The bank holds his notes, which will presently have to be paid. If he can’t pay, the bank comes back on you as his indorser, and you fall back on your mortgage and take the mine. Isn’t that about the size of It?” “It is exactly the size of it. I do want the ‘Little Susan’ and I’ve got a good friend or two in the Red Butte smelters who will help me get it.” Brouillard’s black eyes were snapping, but his voice was quite steady when he said: “Thank you. That brings us down to the mention of the Coronida grant and Stephen Massingale’s threat —which your son can’t remember.” “Right-o,” said Mr. Cortwright, still with predetermined geniality. “What was the threat?” “I don’t know, but the guessing list is open to everybody. There was once a grant of many square miles of mountain and desert somewhere in this region made to one Don Estacio de Montarriba Coronida. Like those of most of the great Spanish land grants, the boundaries of this one were loosely described and —” Mr. Cortwright held up a fat hand. "I know what you’re going to say. But we went into all that at Washington before we ever invested a single dollar in this valley. As you may or may not know, the reclamation service bureau tried to choke us off. But when it came down to brass tacks, they lacked a witness. We may lie in the bed of your proposed lake, but we’re safely on Coronida land.” “So you say,” said Brouillard quietly, “and on the strength of that you have been guaranteeing titles. Just there is where Massingale comes in, I imagine. He has spent twenty years or more in this region, and he knows every landmark in it. What if he should be able to put a lighted match to your pile of kindling, Mr. Cortwright?”

Does It occur to you that, the argument between Cortwright and Brouillard may end with Corthwright’s plotting against the young engineer and sending him to prison on false evidence just to get rid of him? Watch developments.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

Brouillard Hurled Himself With an Oath Upon Young Cortwright.